


Brave Drabbles

by gabg



Category: Brave (2012)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 06:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 33,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3198974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabg/pseuds/gabg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles/one-shots/vignettes; each chapter stems from a prompt submitted by various people. The name of each chapter is the prompt requested. Thanks for reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

These Brave drabbles are all inspired by prompts, which can be a word, a phrase, a pairing, etc. Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	2. Elinor and Fergus Pre-Marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, this turned into an insanely long one-shot (can't even be really called a drabble, sorry)! I just love them so much. Here's some backstory for Elinor and Fergus!

* * *

_Elinor_

Sometimes, Elinor wishes her life were different.

Sure, she knows that her family is better off than most. Their property is tended by extra hands, and the table is always laden with food at mealtimes. Indeed, Elinor enjoys a certain standard of living that many others are not afforded.

This does not stop Elinor's occasional yearning to outside work among a few of them, if only to escape from the stifling walls of the estate.

As the prominent Lord of the MacFadyen Clan, her father is often away on business. This suits Elinor just fine, for he is an austere man that has never taken much of an interest in his daughter, who happens to be his only kin. Of course, this simply means that her equally strict mother, Lady Annabel, has plenty a chance to control every aspect of Elinor's life.

The lass finds refuge in her history books, of all things; she is fascinated by stories not of war, but of heroes. She is obedient, and has never missed a lesson with the exception of illness. But within her is a firm spirit, eager to learn about other cultures and traditions beyond the trite formalities that she must study as a lady. Often, Elinor is scolded when found tucked away here or there, with her nose in a book and her head somewhere far away. Fortunately, the maids are on her side, and they are happy to slip her an apple or sweet bun when they come across her in a hidden corner.

At sixteen, she is of age and will undoubtedly be married off soon to a distant stranger. Despite her reservations about the idea, she knows that beyond it being expected of her, it is unavoidable. She will wed a potential diplomat, and there is nothing else to do but cling to the hope that she will be able to assist and guide her companion with official matters. Elinor is quite taken with the idea of helping others.

At supper one evening, she quietly eats her stew while her mother combs through the day's messages. After a long stretch of silence, Lady Annabel sets down a parchment with a sigh of contentment.

"It's done," she says with a small smile.

Elinor startles at the sudden sound, and wonders what she is in trouble for this time.

"Um…what's done, Mother?" she asks, spoon hovering above its bowl.

"A lady does not hesitate in speech, Elinor," her mother scolds. The young woman bobs her head apologetically, and waits for the Lady to continue.

"A family of the Clan DunBroch has sent a request for yer betrothal. We will accept, of course. There've been rumors that the lad in this letter, as one of the clan's first born, will soon be chosen as King."

Elinor sits in silence for a moment, simultaneously horrified and unsurprised at her mother's flippant tone. This is what she has been preparing for her whole life, and it is her duty. She sets her utensil down; any trace of appetite is gone.

"Yes, Mother. How wonderful," she says politely, hoping that her lack of genuine enthusiasm goes unnoticed.

The Lady returns to her scrutinization of the letter, clearly unconcerned about Elinor's reaction.

"They'll arrive in a fortnight, and ye'll be granted a month for courtin' before the wedding," Annabel adds.

Elinor says nothing.

Her mother looks up with a frown. "And for heaven's sake, stop actin' like you've seen a ghost. There are plenty of girls that would kill to be in your position, and I'll thank ye to be a bit more grateful."

The girl can only swallow and sit up straight, though her shoulders feel heavier by the minute.

* * *

When the day arrives, Elinor and her parents make way to the docks, where the party will be arriving. A mass of a ship materializes in the near distance, and within a half-hour the visitors are docking.

"Clan DunBroch," a servant announces loudly.

Elinor watches curiously as the passengers unload, knowing she must wait until they return to the town for formal introductions to be made. Still, she studies the men (most of whom are large and clearly strong; the DunBroch clan is home to notorious fighters) and tries to identify her betrothed.

There are young men with scars and mean faces, there are scruffy ones with thick cloaks and heavy spears, and there are others with enormous build and friendly expressions. One man in particular catches her attention—his flaming red hair leaves her little choice—and he gives her a confident wave before turning away to assist with a load.

Elinor clasps her hands behind her back, wary still of the arrangement that she must go through with. As a fellow with a particularly gruesome scar on his cheek brazenly looks her up and down, she tries not to think of the worst possible scenarios and fails miserably.

Later, when the travellers have settled in town, Elinor waits with her mother and father in the main hall for the mystery lad and his family to turn up. Before long, a maid opens the heavy doors, and Elinor's brows raise a fraction when she recognizes the redheaded man from earlier.

"My son, Fergus," the elder gentleman says in a deep bravado. The other introductions barely register with Elinor until it is her turn, and she curtsies politely under her mother's watchful eye.

"Pleasure to meet ye," she says clearly.

"The pleasure is mine," the lad nods, surprise dancing across his features. At what, Elinor is not sure, but she can only smile shakily as an air of definiteness settles inside her. This mountainous man is to be her husband, and she has no idea of her feelings about him.

She despises the fact that it has no matter either way.

"Shall we be seated for supper, then?" says her mother, stirring her thoughts, and they are escorted to the dining room.

The meal progresses pleasantly enough, though most of the conversation barely registers with Elinor. She receives more than one meaningful glance from her mother, but finds it impossible to talk to Fergus or his father beyond offering the mandatory  _yes, sir_  and  _no, milord_  when appropriate. It is as if she has suddenly lost the inability to speak, and the knot in her stomach tightens throughout the meal.

* * *

_Fergus_

When Fergus waves at that wisp of a brunette near the docks, he has good intent—honestly, he does. Even from a distance, he knows how to spot the anxious ones, and she is wringing her hands so tightly that they are practically about to fall off. Fergus only had to take one look at the barrage of unwieldy men ascending the banks to figure out the girl could use a friendly face.

Though he can't really see her features, he knows she is nervous, and he simply wants to ease her anxiety. That is all.

Really.

Okay, so that isn't the whole reason behind his cocky waving. He may be far away, but even from the boat he is fairly sure that she is the daughter of Lord MacFadyen —the reason for their visit—and he knows he has this in the bag. So before his humble side can convince his ego otherwise, he waves.

As a near expert on the ladies back home in DunBroch, he's sure that this will be a cinch. She'll be falling for him from his very charming  _hello_ , and they'll go sailing off into the sunset.

He just hopes she isn't  _too_  plain looking.

* * *

"My son, Fergus," his father booms during the introductions. Suddenly, every pair of eyes in the room is focused on him, and it's almost too much.

Then he meets  _her_  gaze, and it's definitely too much. Other names are spoken, but Fergus is hardly listening.

A few moments later, his father gives him a not-so-gentle nudge.

"It is an honor. This is our daughter Elinor," Lady Annabel is saying.

Elinor.

She— _Elinor_ , he tries out in his poor, addled mind—is exquisite, with intelligent dark eyes so large they nearly swallow her face. It's ludicrous, really, how enormous they are. On top of that, they are framed with thick lashes that flutter when she blinks in such a way that Fergus instantly abandons all hope of ever remembering his name. Underneath are cheeks rosy from the warmth of the hall, and a tiny nose that slopes ever so slightly. And then there is her hair. Her hair is woven in a long, heavy braid that reaches to her waist—which, by the way, is more or less the width of his forearm—and its color is of such a rich, glossy brown that Fergus must resist the urge to reach out and feel it.

He is at once dumbstruck and utterly speechless, which may be a first for him.

Then her small pink mouth opens.

"Pleasure to meet ye," is directed towards one very overwhelmed Fergus.

She may look reserved, but is quite the enunciator, he notices. The same cannot be said for him.

"The pleasure is mine," he manages.

"Shall we be seated for supper, then?" says their hostess, and they are lead to a bountiful table.

During the meal, Fergus mainly converses with Lady Annabel, though his true attention lies on her slender dark-haired daughter across the table. Elinor's every action fascinates him in such a way that he wonders at his sanity. She conducts her movements with purpose, but also a timid grace. As he watches her pluck peas from a plate one by one and take teeny sips of water, Fergus has an overwhelming feeling that she is precious cargo, and he wonders how she could ever possibly be with him.

"Oh!" the Lady interrupts his engrossment, pointing at his hand, and he jumps, effectively rattling the table. He realizes that he has bent the silver spoon he is using. It is mangled in his fist as though it were no more than a blob of wet clay, and Fergus frowns apologetically.

"Deepest apologies, milady," he says to his hostess, hastening to correct his fault. Elinor is watching him curiously, and he gives himself a mental kick of embarrassment. He remembers that their arrangement cannot be broken, but he wishes to make a decent impression. Things are not looking good.

The night wears on, and he makes no other foolish mistakes. But the lass does not meet his eyes again, and he feels a crushing disappointment.

* * *

As the weeks pass, Fergus falls long and hard for Elinor of MacFadyen. She is constantly unimpressed by both sword and arrow, but she laughs at his jokes and this is enough for him. They talk for hours about everything and nothing, and each look of amusement or careful joy that she directs towards the lad is multiplied inside him tenfold.

He is in awe of Elinor, particularly how she exercises such perfect control over her emotions, only letting him in a fraction at a time. It is difficult to tell what she is thinking most of the time, but her chocolate eyes watch him patiently each instance while he attempts to fathom it out. She dances circles around him when it comes to geography, politics and history. His betrothed is easily the most interesting and brilliant person he has ever met, though she is quiet around most people. Beneath her bored demeanor, however, is a kind soul that he slowly begins to feel privy to. She is boldly smart when given the chance, and occasionally rather pert, which he enjoys tremendously.

Above all, Fergus finds that he wants nothing more but her to be happy.

One day, as he eats his morning meal in solitude, his thoughts flit to their usual subject. He has already memorized Elinor's soft laugh and the heart shape of her face, and his mouth turns up while he spoons porridge into it. He makes up his mind to plan something special for the evening, when her lessons are done.

As he eats, he thinks,  _Aye, this is how it feels to yearn_.

* * *

While the afternoon fades into twilight, Fergus and Elinor miraculously sneak away from their watchful parents—it is frowned upon to wander unsupervised after dark—and find the edge of the wood. Despite her eyerolling, he politely holds branches out of Elinor's way as they head down the forest path. After a while, they reach a clearing. Elinor raises a slender hand to her lips to muffle her gasp at the sight he has led them to.

"A picnic! Fergus, ye shouldn't have." Beyond the bounds of possibility, her eyes are more enormous than usual, and they radiate joy at his surprise. The entire scene, from the scent of the wildflowers surrounding them to the glow radiating from the lanterns he has placed on the blanket, is astounding.

"It was nothin'." He waves his hand modestly, and she smirks at him, not fooled for a second. His eyes twinkle at his fortune; he is so pleased that she is content.

"It's wonderful," she breathes, admiring the spread. He managed to scrounge up everything down to a blanket with a pretty swirling pattern, details that do not go unnoticed by Elinor. Fergus places a guiding hand on her arm lightly, and is about to invite her to sit when she turns to him suddenly, dimples fading with her smile.

"Fergus, wait."

He pauses, startled at the unexpected annoyance in her expression.

"What is it, lass?"

"I see how ye look at me," Elinor says a tad sharply.

Fergus has no idea where this is coming from and feels helplessly confused, but the lad will do whatever he can to remedy her sudden distemper.

"Beg yer pardon?"

She flips her braid over one shoulder, and crosses her arms coolly.

"You look at me if I'm a breakable doll. Well, I'm not."

Of  _course_  she's noticed his trepidation. He has tried so hard to be gentle, from fear of harming the fragile girl. Every step he takes, every time he enters a room, he is aware of her and how she compares to his bulk. But despite her dainty appearance, he realizes that "delicate" is hardly an adequate way to describe such an extraordinary person.

"Oh, Elinor. I didn't mean…I'm sorry," he squeaks. He grasps his bearded chin in frustration, though he can't help but feeling just a little electrified by the heat emanating from the person in front of him.

She sighs and shakes her head, looking down at her braid before tugging it between both hands. "Never ye mind. I don't know what's gotten into me. I suppose I just…" And then Elinor trails off.

As she swallows and gives him an excruciating gaze—he almost thinks it could be considered hungry—his eyes widen with realization. At once, he allows himself to consider the possibility that she, too, has been thinking about him in a certain way.

He pushes that thought away to be agonized over later, and they finally start the picnic.

Fergus and Elinor settle into their meal, and he watches as she manages to turn outdoor dining into an elegant matter. She dabs her mouth occasionally with a square of cloth from the basket, and Fergus finds himself to be astonishingly jealous of the napkin.

When they are finished, he invites her for a round with the bow and arrow as the last rays are fading for the day. Elinor smirks, but agrees to humor him. Secretly, she enjoys shooting, and knows that he likes teaching her.

He helps her position the weapon—she barely needs the help, but does not resist the idea of his arm around her—and she leans into his warm embrace.

"Now, just pull back, and…"

She releases the string, and the arrow is buried in the targeted tree.

"Ye did it! Well done!" he exclaims.

He swoops Elinor up and squeezes her in a bone-crushing congratulatory bear hug. She squeaks in surprise, and he sheepishly sets her back on her feet. She cannot help but grin foolishly.

"Look there," he says, pointing behind her. They watch as the sun finally sets and bright stars appear up above. The mountains loom beneath, making for a gorgeous scene.

He looks over at Elinor, who has smoothly slipped her warm hand into his own. She admires the night sky, reflections of the moon and stars sparkling in her eyes. Fergus, in turn, cannot tear himself away from her profile, and feels as his soul gives over to her completely. Perhaps, in time, she will come to return his love.

* * *

 


	3. Merida and the Triplets

* * *

One late afternoon on a day off, when she has had her fill of Angus and the open air, Merida saunters into the kitchens to grab some food. She gracefully tosses an apple into the air, and as she catches it behind her back, she spots three redheaded boys huddled in a corner.

The princess sneaks on them up behind a stone counter. "Oh, what's this here?"

They jump at the intrusion, looking absolutely guilty before they realize who it is.

"Merry!" Hamish squeaks in reply. "C'mere," he whispers conspiratorially. Her brothers aren't big on speaking in front of others, but they can always be counted on to let their guards down around their older sister.

Merida throws a look over her shoulder before moving in closer, and leans on the counter as to appear casual, just in case. She takes a crunchy bite of apple and waits for the triplets to fill her in on whatever shenanigans they may be up to this time.

When they finish explaining their prank, Merida tosses her core into the bin and crosses her arms. "Sounds like a good laugh, but what's to do if ye lads get caught?"

Hubert rolls his eyes. "We won't. Ye'll help us, aye?"

"'Course I will. Now hurry! I'll keep watch." The boys scamper into the adjoining hall, and Merida looks for something to keep busy with while she watches the walkway. Just as she finds a couple more apples, Elinor enters the kitchen from the other door.

"Mum!" Merida says brightly, desperately thinking of ways to distract her mother.

The Queen, of course, instantly picks up on the nervous energy emitting from the girl, and she raises her eyebrows curiously.

"I suppose ye had a nice run, dear?" she asks. Despite the Queen's disapproval, it's not unusual to find Merida in the kitchens so close to supper. However, the way in which her eyes are darting around is reasonable cause for suspicion.

"It was a lovely sunset. Ye should have seen it, Mum!" she says enthusiastically, eager to latch on to any topic.

"I ought to sometime soon," Elinor smiles, and Merida relaxes for a moment. But then her mother gets to the point of her visit.

"Now, where have yer brothers gone off to?" Elinor says irritably. "Maudie's just informed me that they've not been seen for a half-hour at least, and we'll be settin' down for supper shortly."

Merida grimaces slightly at the change in mood, and does her best to look nonchalant.

"I've no idea," she shrugs. "Ye could try the stables. They like to roll in the hay sometimes," she giggles.

Elinor narrows her eyes, not entirely placated. "If yer sure ye haven't seen them, then."

"Nooooope. I came only just now for a bit to eat," Merida says, blinking innocently. Her mother sighs in defeat, and after a reminder that  _a lady shouldn't fill up before supper_ she leaves Merida alone.

* * *

Supper that night is very, very quiet. The triplets sit still in their seats, and Merida tries not to laugh out loud. They are in so much trouble, this she knows. When Maudie discovered the "bear tracks" in the hallway, which led to what appeared to be an attack victim (complete with sausage-link intestines spilling out), she'd been too spooked to realize it was merely a flour sack dummy. The whole affair quickly spread throughout the castle, and only a fool would doubt that Hamish, Harris, and Hubert had orchestrated it.

Elinor glares at them as the King attempts to berate the triplets.

"Now, boys, ye….uh, ye know…" Fergus waves a knife vaguely in the air.

His wife rolls her eyes before interrupting his weak articulation, as usual.

"What do ye have to say for yourselves?" the Queen says through her teeth.

The triplets glance at each other quickly, and decide to remain silent. Fergus is doing a poor job of holding back a grin, and provides the only sound in the room as he cheerfully gnaws on a drumstick.

Elinor notices her husband's posture. "Fergus, we are  _not_  encouraging this."

"Aye, 'course not, dear."

It would be comical, except that Merida, who has been poking at her meal with a fork, knows that she is  _in for it_  once she comes clean. She clears her throat.

"Mum, they wouldn't have gotten away with it had I not agreed to distract ye. I deserve the blame."

This is why the triplets admire her so, and they shoot her identically grateful looks. Merida smiles back, until she feels Elinor's steely gaze switch targets.

"I expect better of ye, Merida." Her dark eyes are disappointed, and Merida bows her head with genuine shame.

"Sorry, I really am. But…" she looks up with a glint in her aquamarine eyes, causing Elinor to frown slightly.

"…They all had such a fit!" she bursts out, unable to help it. Fergus roars with laughter at the end of the table as they all recall the maids' screams.

The Queen cracks a hint of a smile. As the triplets begin to fling stew at each other, Merida knows they are off the hook…for now.

* * *

 


	4. Archery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely enthusiastic about the Merida-finds-love idea. Many seem to favor this pairing though (it's the one I prefer, too), so I gave it a try. Thanks again for reading!

* * *

When a few months pass, Queen Elinor asks her daughter to  _please_ _give love another chance._  After much eye-rolling and muttered complaints, Merida agrees to a visit from the MacGuffin clan. Despite the effort it took to understand him, Niall of MacGuffin was the most tolerable of the suitors in Merida's opinion. She is confident enough in herself that she needs no lad to complete her, but she also holds too much respect for her mother and the kingdom that she will one day inherit. A companion is necessary in many aspects, and she considers herself open-minded enough to at least  _try_  to get along with someone.

It is early fall when the MacGuffin party arrives, and Merida is not the only one to find herself shocked at the improvements in Niall's speech. He has clearly been studying up on their dialect, and the Court is relieved at the new easiness in communication (they are also pleasantly surprised to find that he is an intelligent lad, with clever strategies and ideas). Merida finds herself somewhat charmed, if not entirely head over heels.

When Young MacGuffin's visit nears the two-week mark, at Elinor's suggestion, the pair head off into a forest clearing for a little exercise. Niall's clan is practiced at brute battle strategies and handling heavy weapons, but these past few weeks have had him fascinated at the princesses' agility with bow and arrow. The thin weapon is delicate at first glance, much like Merida herself, but holds such a power that he cannot help but want to learn it. (Similarly, he enjoys his thoughtful conversations with the lass during starry-skied evenings.)

Niall bites back a rather colorful string of curses formulating in his mind as another shot goes wide. He hates archery, he hates arrows, and he especially hates that a lady is witnessing his poor performance. Not just any lady, but a gently smiling princess who comments that his aim is slightly better but if he could just—

Oh. Ah, well, this is nice.

Merida stands behind him, pressed right up against him back, her slender arms guiding his own mighty ones. Niall feels his face heat up while a steadying presence, and her light laughter tells him to  _breathe_ , and her face is  _so close_ …

"Really, Niall. Breathe." Her bossy voice intrudes rather rudely upon his sudden daydreams, but he obeys. It is a failed attempt, as the arrow slips a notch and the aim is so ruined that the shot digs itself into the ground so far from the mark that he might as well have been aiming backwards.

He mutters a Doric swear, breaks away from her, and grips the bow angrily. Merida watches his antics with mild amusement. "It takes time, lad, and patience. Ye aren't hopeless, by any means."

"Of course'm not hopeless. I have m'spears," he mutters in embarrassment.

"Does that mean ye don't wish to continue practicing?" God help him, she is laughing at him; he is sure of it.

"I…" He wants to say he will never touch a bow again. But something is keeping him from proclaiming such, and he has an idea as to what that is. "I could try again, I suppose. Some other time."

The princess grins brilliantly, and her eyes sparkle with excitement. "Tomorrow, then, after my lessons!"

"Sounds like a date," Niall blurts, and if the redhead notices his vocabulary choice, she doesn't correct him.

* * *

 


	5. Discussion of the Suitors

* * *

Months later, after the castle chaos died down (or in the case of the triplets, simply continued); after the clans returned to their homelands; after Merida saw to it that both Angus and her mother's horse received new shoes; after the torn dresses were sewn up (Queen Elinor's took a bit longer, beetle wings are hard to come by); after the first tapestry was rehung and the new one completed; after the queen went back to her braids; after King Fergus put away his bear-hunting equipment in exchange for playing with his sons; after Merida learned to play a C; months later, after all of that, the royal couple  _finally_  relaxes one late autumn evening.

"How was yer day, dear?" Fergus lazily asks from the bed, hands laced behind his head.

Elinor sighs, and within it he can almost hear the weight of queenly duties and the additional responsibility of four children.

"Fine. Everythin's most back to normal, which is a relief. The last of the bear carvin's were taken to town today," she informs him. The children of the village were overjoyed to have some new prizes to play with, and the Clan DunBroch's ruling family breathed a collective sigh of relief as the animal tokens left the castle forever. They've had about enough of bears, thank you very much.

"Ay, that's good," he mumbles, feeling exhausted himself. Harsh winters call for extra men, and Fergus has been helping with the training before the frigid season is upon them.

Elinor's fingers are nimble as she uncoils her braids. "How are yer men lookin' this year?"

He perks up a bit: fighting is his favorite subject. "Aye, strong as ever. We had a good round of roughhousin' after practice today. They near took me down," he chuckles, remembering.

Elinor frowns, and loosens the ties on her stiff undergarments before slipping them off. "As long as ye don't lose sight of the lads. I'm not so sure it's good form to mess with 'em so," she says sternly.

"Oh, never ye mind," he says lightheartedly. Elinor slips her ivory night robe on, and runs a comb through her lengthy locks one final time.

"And don't think I've forgotten yer inappropriate behavior at the Highland Games," she scowls.

"Aye, 'course ye haven't, love," he says fondly.

"Hmm."

"Anyways, they like a good wrestle now and then. Keeps us all goin'," he finishes as she climbs in next to him.

Fergus shrugs a playful arm around his wife, who halfheartedly protests before giving in to the embrace. He relaxes his hold, and she sinks into the warm safety of the bed. Just as her lids flutter shut, an impish look overcomes Fergus' face and he tickles her sides enthusiastically. Elinor shrieks while the king grins ferociously, and they nearly tumble off the bed.

She admonishes him with generous slapping, but there's a sparkle in her eye that encourages him not to worry. His heart swells with adoration at the sight of her: hair loose and silky, looking so young and as fair as the day he met her. He knows that his wife is still the lass he's always loved; she just behaves a bit more formally as they get on in years.

Elinor is most certainly awake again, and they discuss a few happy memories for several minutes. They have a good laugh over one in particular where Fergus threw an archery competition only to win a double pot the next go-around (much to the disbelief of his rather dim opponents).

But soon her smile fades, and he can tell her thoughts have landed on a different subject.

"Fergus, I tried to talk to Merida about the future today. You and I, we're not gettin' any younger…"

Fergus furrows his brow. "And?"

The queen shakes her head. "…And, it didn't go well. She's been good, keepin' the bow off the table and such, but when it comes to this, I don't know how to approach it," she says, frustrated.

He touches her shoulder with a comforting finger. "I could talk to her," he offers. He knows that this is important to his wife, and he loves her and his daughter both. There must be some way to satisfy the pair.

Elinor looks at him skeptically. "Are ye sure? I know ye both get along fine, and this is a fine way to muss that up," she smirks.

"Ay, how hard can it be, Elinor? Here, we'll just practice. Ye'll be Merida this time," the king nods towards her. His wife gives him a patented Elinor look—the one that plainly states  _I am not amused,_ but she agrees to give it a shot.

Fergus clears his throat dramatically. "Merida, my daughter. I think it's time we had a talk about…boys," he says seriously.

Elinor crosses her arms, rolls her eyes and whines  _Daaaaad_  in such a good impression of Merida that Fergus does a double take. (He knows that his wife and daughter are more similar than they'd care to acknowledge, but still, the imitation is uncanny.) After recovering, he continues.

"I mean it, lass. Yer mum and I won't be 'round forever, and someone's got to keep the place goin'," he says good-naturedly.

The king thinks that this is not a bad tactic, really. Merida just needs to understand that while her parents support her on her path to find love in due time, they cannot help the official duty she was born into. It is their obligation to guide her decision-making with love and trust (she is stubborn, but then so are her parents) in both Merida's favor and in the interest of the kingdom. If the decision includes an able companion, then all the better. (Fergus shudders to think of the ruckus that would ensue, should his daughter forfeit the crown to one of the triplets.)

Elinor uncrosses her arms, and a sad smile overcomes her lovely face. "She listens, but she doesn't know what she wants, and I hardly blame the lass. What do ye think about the suitors, yerself?" She places a hand on his muscular chest, inviting his opinion.

Fergus brings to mind the events from last season. With all of the action, he'd barely paid attention to the other clan's firstborns, and his boldest memories are that of the Games. He chuckles upon recalling Wee Dingwall's haphazard success, and McIntosh's temper tantrum.

"I suppose MacGuffin could be acceptable, with a little work," he says finally.

Elinor seems to think this over, then nods her approval as she absentmindedly strokes his arm. "Ye can barely understand the lad," she agrees. "But he's my first choice as well. I haven't gotten so far with Merida yet as to ask her about him," she adds softly.

"He wasn't a terrible shot, either. Not that he compares to our princess," Fergus says proudly.

She gives a gentle laugh. "Aye, Fergus—no one does."

And with that, the conversation is definitely over. The king adores his queen like this; sleepy and uninhibited in such a way that he falls in love deeper still. He lightly kisses her neck, making her shiver, and she whispers affectionate words to him as they drift off together.

* * *

 


	6. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was accompanied by some extra specifications, which also serve as a sort of summary for this drabble: 'Merida didn't get led to the witch; instead, she has to go home and face her mother after their argument.' This was kind of tricky to write, because technically the Merida and Elinor in this situation never underwent the character development that the events of Brave bring on.

* * *

Merida flees the castle grounds as quickly as Angus will take her, and her body is wracked with uncontrollable sobs as she rides through the glen. Angus eventually takes her to the special mountain area, and her dismount is more of a tumble into the soft grass. Through her tears, the princess is barely aware of the beautiful view that the spot offers, the clouds swirling pink and orange in the late afternoon sky. She numbly sits in the grass with the tatters of her ice-blue dress splayed around her, and the sight of it only reminds her of the awful day. Her tangled mane of hair whips about in the strong breeze, but she takes no notice as she mourns the loss of her favorite bow. Merida cannot  _believe_  her mother did this to her. She hates her! She  _hates_ her!

Merida stays only until the sun disappears below the distant horizon; for as distraught as she feels, she is not foolish enough to think that she has a chance in the woods after dark without the protection of a weapon. The clear mountain air has calmed her somewhat, and her body regains its senses as she climbs back on her horse. She nudges Angus with her leg, and shivers the entire ride home, certainly feeling the lack of a cloak.

She takes her time settling Angus in his stall, not at all eager to face the queen after the way they've both behaved. Merida's explosive anger has diminished somewhat, and now she is able to feel immense sorrow for her actions towards the project that her mother had labored over for years; however, she also still harbors a quiet rage towards Elinor's equally impulsive retort. Each of them has destroyed something that they hold dear, including the less measurable bonds of trust and respect between them (as if they weren't already strained!). Merida wishes she had an idea of where to begin apologizing for the ruined tapestry, not to mention how to forgive her mother in return (should Elinor even express remorse for the charred possession, which Merida does not entirely expect).

When she can procrastinate no longer, Merida hikes up her torn skirts and drags her feet into the Court's kitchens to see if her appetite can be stirred. It seems unusually dark and gloomy in the empty room, and the girl feels very much alone. At that moment, Elinor glides through the entryway, and upon seeing a dejected-looking Merida leaning against the counter she rushes towards her.

"Merida,  _oh_ , thank goodness, I didn't know  _where_  ye'd gone—" She cuts her speech off upon realizing that she is gripping the princess' shoulders rather hard. She draws back her arms, and after recollecting herself, Elinor continues, "—But yer back now, and—"

"—I'm sorry," they blurt at the same time, wearing identically timid expressions tinged with relief. But as they simultaneously remember the consequences, Elinor's face hardens expertly while Merida does a poorer job of controlling her distressed features.

"What have we done?" Elinor whispers unhappily, her tone sounding the most unsure that Merida can ever recall, which scares her a little. Her mum is the one who is always supposed to know what to do; she is the constant leader, the stable element in Merida's chaotic life.

The redhead's eyebrows knit together as she chooses her words carefully, feeling very old all of a sudden.

"Well, mum, we've both been wronged. But we're both to blame, too."

Blue eyes search brown ones for a sign of encouragement, and Elinor's face softens at her daughter's admission.

"When did ye get so wise, lass?" she asks in a faraway voice, but her smile is slightly teasing as she folds her only daughter in a tight embrace.

"I learned from the best," Merida returns only a little sarcastically. Elinor smiles into the mop of red curls, musing that the girl's attitude proves she has yet some growing up to do, but overall she is grateful for the turn of events.

Elinor loosens her grip, but continues to look at her kin warmly for a moment before recalling the damaged bow, and the queen can't help frowning. She clasps her hands and brings them to her chin, her silken sleeves falling back with a quiet  _swoosh_.

"My act was unacceptable; foolish. Merida, yer special bow, I…" she stresses, at a loss for a solution.

"Mum, I can make a new one," Merida starts, before thinking that  _no_ ,  _it won't be quite the same_ , but she has decided that she doesn't hate her mother so much as to torture her further. "It will be different, but nice still. Maybe ye can help me carve it this time," she offers.

Elinor smiles thankfully, internally marveling at Merida's maturity.

"I'd like that," the queen nods, fingering one emerald-hued sleeve while she considers the other issue at hand.

The tapestry is more easily repairable, she knows, though it will never be perfect. Then again, neither is their family relationship, so perhaps it the patching up it will undergo is all the more fitting.

Merida seems to be following a similar thought process, and her face crumples in anguish. "I ought to be punished for ruinin' yer tapestry," she says in a small voice, embarrassed when her eyes begin to fill with tears once more. "Ye worked so hard, sewin' it all this time…"

Elinor understands by now that the lass is sincerely regretful, reaching far beyond the childish notion of shallow woe in face of punishment. Merida is still often self-concerned, of course, but Elinor makes a promise to herself to recall her own similar tendencies as a young woman and deal with future conflict accordingly. She has been an able queen, she knows, in that she has coached her daughter in royal duty. The mother in her is not so sure that she has performed as aptly.

Elinor smiles to herself, confident that they will move forward from this.

"It is perfectly salvageable, dear, ye needn't torture yerself over it," she soothes. Merida's brow clears, and she hugs her mother quickly. Elinor is momentarily surprised, but recovers in an instant and returns the motion. The queen and princess are mutually confident that they now understand each other a little better, and the bond between them feels undeniably stronger.

* * *

 


	7. A Disastrous Situation of the Suitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, writing snappy Elinor is so much fun. Isn't it great how much better her relationship with Merida is after the events of Brave? Sigh… (P.S. There's no way they waltzed in 10th century Scotland, but hey, artistic license, right?)

* * *

On the evening before the Highland Games, the King and Queen of DunBroch host a celebratory ball of sorts. It is similar to their usual events, except that the band is bigger and dancing is mandatory. Normally, prominent figures of neighboring lands would be invited, but tonight the castle is nearly full to capacity due to the numerous visitors. The party starts out smoothly as the four clans feast together in the great throne room, trading stories of war and loss, of travel and family. Dispositions grow increasingly merry as the drinks continue to flow, and heavy goblets clink as toast after toast is made.

"To the Highland Games!" calls one guest, his helmet jauntily slipping over one eye.

The response is enthusiastic. "Aye!"

Another lad, whose only hair consists of an enormous mustache, raises his mug: "To the fair Princess!"

"To the fair Princess!" the tables repeat, and drink. Ale sloshes over the rims and onto the floor. A poor, unsuspecting servant slips in a large puddle on his route through the hall. No one notices.

"To Her Majesty, the Queen!" comes one more shout.

The response is louder this time, partly out of genuine respect and partly from mob giddiness. The cheering goes on for quite some time, and after a very pointed look from his wife, Fergus rises to his feet to move things along.

"Music!" he declares with a roar, and with his gesture the chorus of bagpipes strikes up a joyful song. At this, the roomful of men musters to the dance floor clumsily. It is a funny sight to look upon, for few of the warriors have had the privilege of formal dance training, and some begin odd jigs while others simply swing their various weapons around randomly.

(There are more than a few near misses.)

Merida hides a grin from where she watches on her throne, and her brothers bounce excitedly on their bench, unable to resist joining the action. After a couple of minutes, Elinor sighs and waves the triplets off, and they disappear into the rambunctious crowd.

For once, Merida is glad that she is expected to sit attentively near her mother. She dreads the thought of what is coming later—she must dance with each of the suitors before the end of the night, and in her head she groans that  _her life might as well be over_.

She glances over at Elinor, who is surveying the scene with her usual calm. They have been on shaky terms since the day before, when her mother lectured on about yet  _another_ ancient kingdom. In hopes of putting her mum in a better mood, Merida stayed out of her way all day before the evening festivities, and now is as good a time as any to give her argument another go.

"Mum? Do I, um, really have to dance with those lads?" she asks in a civil tone, careful not to whine.

Elinor glances at her daughter, and upholds her formal stance. Her lips barely move with her answer, and Merida strains her ears to hear the reply.

"Honestly, Merida, to bring this up  _here_. Yes, of course ye must. The fate of this kingdom relies on yer cooperation tonight."

Her face may be expressionless, but the Princess can detect annoyance in her mum's voice. Even still, she presses on.

"I thought 'the fate of the kingdom' rested on the Highland Games," Merida grumbles.

"That's quite enough," snaps Elinor, finally turning to look at the girl. "One dance with each young man will be sufficient, and I won't hear any more about it."

"Mother, it's not fair!" Now she's whining.

"Oh, Merida! It's only a dance, not the end of the world," Elinor sighs. "Your lessons have prepared you," she adds, in case that's what this is all about— _perhaps Merida is simply afraid of stumbling?_

The redhead frowns upon hearing this. Truthfully she is rather agile in everyday life, and thus adept at the art of movement. However, she despises it in a formal setting, mostly out of spite towards her mother.

But she knows a defeat when she sees one.

"Fine, let's get it over with, then," she mutters.

It's not that she is worried about making a fool of herself; it is the dance partners themselves she is concerned with. Merida can only hope that they know a thing or two about it, and the rest is out of her hands. Elinor offers a small smile (is that empathy? Merida isn't positive, and it's over before she is properly sure) and rises from her seat before smoothing out her skirts.

The room falls silent in a moment, the band dying down unceremoniously after a short delay.

"If the suitors would please step forward for a dance, they will be joined by the Princess for the waltz," Elinor says clearly, hands clasped at her front.

Merida is first ushered into the arrogant arms of Young McIntosh, and the music starts up again.  _One-two-three, one-two-three_ , she counts as McIntosh constantly checks whether his blue body paint is smearing, and then  _whew_ , it is over. The princess curtsies politely, and it doesn't escape her notice when McIntosh's expression is one of incredulity, as if he cannot believe she isn't falling all over him by now. She resists the overwhelming urge to roll her eyeballs until they stick, and looks to Young MacGuffin for the next dance.

He is surprisingly nimble for such a large lad, and Merida feels more comfortable with him than McIntosh, who while dancing had paid more attention to the placement of his hair than of his feet . MacGuffin leads her easily around the floor, and even lifts her at the end, much to her delight. She doesn't deny that it is fun to feel weightless once in a while, not that she'd ever let on.

Two down, which leaves… _oh, dear_.

Wee Dingwall shuffles forward, his tartan sash drooping. Swallowing, Merida stifles a wince at the sight and tries not to consider the worst-case scenario. As the lad takes her hand is his own clammy one, her father gives what is probably supposed to be an encouraging smile but end up looking more like a sympathetic grimace.

The boy's knowledge on the subject of dancing soon proves to be lacking, and his vacant stare gives Merida the impression that he has abandoned trying long ago. She soon gives up the act of appearing courtly and feminine once her energy is required elsewhere: attempting not to fall while Dingwall constantly stomps on her thin slippers. She inwardly curses her luck, and settles for sucking in a breath each time his strangely heavy feet connect with hers. Merida can feel the room watching them, including her mother, whose hand has no doubt found its way to her chest in her trademark sign of worry.

When the dance is nearly over, Merida is about to sigh in relief when  _it happens_. Her partner, clumsy as she's ever known someone to be, manages to trip into a tipsy guest, who looks dumbfounded as he topples into another. Merida watches with an open mouth as men collapse like playing cards, ending with no less than three crushed bagpipes and an unconscious dog. The whole ordeal takes less than a minute, and the Princess can only stare at the scrawny lad who has managed to bring half a roomful of fierce warriors to the ground.

Elinor interrupts the deafening silence with a clear of her throat, and professes that the party is indeed over. Merida flees the room the second a hum of confusion starts up.

* * *

It is much later when Elinor finds her daughter in her bedroom, fiddling with her sword.

"Merida, it was very rude to leave without a proper farewell," she scolds.

Merida rolls her eyes, and continues to inspect the hilt of her weapon. "Mum, I'll apologize tomorrow."

Elinor sighs. "I suppose I don't blame ye for runnin' off, considerin' things," she says in a softer tone.

"The whole thing was a disaster," Merida groans, her hands over her face, and Elinor has to agree.

"It was a bit of a kerfuffle," she admits, and absentmindedly rubs one temple while Merida looks on with disbelief.

"A bit?  _Mum_ , he knocked out twelve people!"

Elinor brings a hand to her mouth, and giggles once. "It was quite somethin', wasn't it?" she marvels.

Merida flops on her back, the sword forgotten. "He'll never live it down!" she says gleefully.

"Now, now. A princess is never cruel," the Queen says sternly, but her amusement is ill masked.

It feels nice to have a laugh with her daughter, and Elinor lingers in her daughter's room a little longer. Neither of them wishes to think about tomorrow's events, when their good standing will undoubtedly face some hardship as the suitors officially compete for Merida's hand.

_Like I'm a prize to be won_ , she thinks sadly through her smile. If her woe is apparent, Elinor doesn't notice.

* * *

 


	8. Macintosh and Merida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the events of Brave.

* * *

She finds him perched on a boulder by the shore.

A storm is rolling in—the gray skies tell a timeless tale of warriors lost to sea; of villages destroyed by flood. It often downpours, in the Highlands. But the smell of the air before a rain never fails to fill her with a shivery, mysterious feeling, as if the surrounding nature is in on a secret that she will never understand.

As a mere human, it is easy to feel tiny in comparison to the endless expanse of open sky. A different war rages among the swirling clouds, one that is not to be fought by men or beast. It is a force of its own.

"Ye shouldn' be out here," she says to his backside. "Ye'll be caught in the rain, without cover."

He doesn't flinch at her words, though he couldn't have been expecting her.

"Hello, Princess," he greets her, avoiding her statement.

Merida lifts her skirts and settles next to him. The rock is large enough, and she feels its weathered smoothness with her hands.

"Ye seem withdrawn," she observes with a glance at his profile. It's obvious that Young McIntosh came here to seek privacy, and she feels a wee bit guilty for intruding. But the Clans depart tomorrow morning. This is her final chance to learn him at her own pace.

"Just thinkin'," he shrugs. "The Games have given me plenty to contemplate, about my archery form'n such."

The lad gives her a quick look, and she can see that he is still embarrassed. Whether the shame is over his poor aim or the resulting tantrum, Merida has not a clue.

"Aye, I think we can all agree that the Games didn't go as planned." She gives a humorless chuckle at the thought of the eventful few days. It was a lot to  _bear_ , indeed.

McIntosh knows that the Princess does not tolerate arrogance, and he will not put on the act for her. He is, frankly, exhausted from it all. Here, in front of the endless waters, it is surprisingly easy to subdue his ego.

"It was my fault, the way it all happened. I dunno what I'd do if Mor'du had…" she trails off with a tightened jaw.

His shoulders scrunch up a bit, and the blue painted spirals on his chest distort with the movement. "I think ye handled it well, Princess." A hint of a smile appears. "Yer not bad with sword," he adds.

Merida laces her hands behind her back. "Love is a source of great strength," she says quietly. "I was faced with a decision to fight or live with the loss. I chose without regret."

McIntosh admires her, he really does. "That ye did."

Talking to her is already improving his mood. She's unlike any lady he has ever known, and he's more than a little disappointed that his visit is coming to a close.

Meanwhile, his companion decides to move to a lighter topic.

"What is yer mum like?" Merida asks curiously. There have been plenty of men around lately, and she has to wonder who is holding down the fort in each Clan's homeland.

His face darkens, and he looks away. "She died when I was a babe," he says detachedly. "It's always been me dad and I."

The Princess' mouth falls open with a soft  _oh_ , and her brows knit with pity. Perhaps his juvenile behavior has some cause, after all.

Merida loves her father dearly, but can't imagine what life would be like without her mum. (She'd almost lost Elinor to the mind of a beast, but had saved her just in time. Merida's heart goes out to the boy beside her, who likely wasn't offered the same opportunity.) Though she often takes it for granted, the warm embrace of family is such an intrinsic part of her being, and she harbors a deep affection for her parents and brothers even at their naughtiest.

She can barely wrap her head around the idea of a boy who exists alone but for one familial person.

"Thank you," she says softly.

He looks over with a puzzled expression. McIntosh is used to fleeting sympathy or encouragement to  _be a man and_   _get over it,_  but never this.

"Beg yer pardon?" he squints.

"For telling me that; and for the compliment before. I'm not often praised for my bravery," she admits. "Too unladylike, and so forth."

"I thank ye as well, for the opportunity to see yer home. The world is at yer fingertips," he says, gesturing to the looming mountains behind their rock.

"Promise ye'll visit," Merida grins at her new friend. "It's too big to explore alone."

Tomorrow, Young McIntosh will return to what he calls home (desolate plains in comparison), and he savors the beauty of this place and the magic that lingers beside him.

The wind picks up around them, and they sit in comfortable silence, occasionally sniffing in the salty air.

* * *

 


	9. Fergus at the Highland Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole prompt is 'Fergus's thoughts as Merida shoots for her own hand'. Enjoy!

* * *

When Young Dingwall shocks the Games attendees with his chance victory, King Fergus turns to his Queen in good humor.

"Well, that's just grand now, isn't it? Guess who's comin' to dinner?" he says, joking as usual in the face of uncertainty.

"Fergus!" Elinor scolds, but he makes no notice. "By the way, hope ye don't mind bein' called Lady Ding..." he trails off when he turns to face his daughter, hoping to share in the fun, but sees a dog in her seat instead.

_Uh oh._

At that moment on the field, a slim figure tears off her hood and reveals her identity to the crowd.

"I am Merida, first born descendant of Clan DunBroch. And I'll be shooting for my own hand!" his daughter announces confidently. Fergus can only stare in complete surprise, unable to believe that Merida would go this far. Then he reconsiders; she is technically playing by the rules. So far, the audience is quietly captivated. No fighting yet as far as he can see.

But next to him, Elinor is visibly flustered. "What are you  _doing_?" she mutters, and Fergus' thoughts are, naturally, an echo of his wife's. Merida is pushing the limits of an already tense alliance between clans, and it is no wonder that Elinor's inflection is clearly disapproving. Fergus himself doesn't know how he feels about the matter yet. It can mean nothing but trouble, but he waits to see what happens next with curious disposition.

He watches as Merida readies to shoot her arrow, and in the face of the hell that is yet to come, he cannot help but feel proud of the lass's nerve. Even as the Queen warns her ("Merida!"), he can only think:  _That's my girl._

The Princess ignores Elinor's threatening tone, and continues to prepare to take aim. Her formal gown is apparently restrictive, and after struggling for several moments she tries a different tactic.

"This dress!" she cries out angrily, and numerous eyebrows fly upwards as she stretches and effectively rips the dress. Once she is allowed to move freely, she aims and hits the first target dead on center. The crowd gasps and murmurs… _the princess, and a supposed lady, shooting...Who could fathom such a concept...What will Young McIntosh say?…Is this how these things usually go?..._ and so forth.

Fergus, with eyes strictly focused on the redheaded rebel, is only vaguely aware of his wife storming onto the field. A corner of his mind comprehends that Elinor has not given up, nor would he expect her to. He doesn't bother to try and intervene; he will leave this one to the experts.

" _Merida_ , stop this!" Elinor orders, truly shouting at this point. The girl instead moves to the second target, determinedly aims, and shoots center once more. Fergus frowns; though he admires her tenacity and obvious skill, Merida is now outwardly disobeying her mother and Queen, and there will be an inevitable punishment to come.

"Don't you  _dare_  release another arrow!" says his wife dangerously. She fists her skirts and advances across the grass, equally purposeful in her efforts to put a halt to the disruption at once.

Merida takes another arrow from her quiver, clearly preparing to shoot the third target though its center is already claimed. The Kings's brow furrows at this; how could she possibly plan to beat a perfect bulls-eye?

And furthermore—does she know what is at stake? That her actions have the power to spark a war between clans, to endanger the reputations of him and the Queen, to send the kingdom into utter turmoil?

Perhaps she does not.

Fergus knows that Merida lives in the present. She is concerned with fate—they all are somewhat, as per the traditions of their culture—but she tends to believe that the future is changeable based on the choices made  _now_. He usually loves this optimistic (if impulsive) trait of his daughter's, but in this case the consequences may be harrowing.

With one last attempt—Fergus does not know why, because their daughter has already gone too far—his wife commands, "Merida, I FORBID IT!"

The King stares as the girl eyes the target with utter concentration. Just like he taught her, she holds the ornately carved bow with perfect steadiness, carefully pulling the string until taut. Though he is yards away, he can almost hear as she releases two long breaths, and then…

She shoots the arrow.

To everyone's amazement, the arrow does not only hit the center of the target. No, with remarkable force, it splits Young Dingwall's arrow in half and then lodges itself deep into the target's back scaffold.  _Absolutely remarkable,_ he applauds mentally.

With satisfaction at her feat (that will no doubt be short lived), Merida turns right into the face of a furious Elinor. The King can only pray that his daughter lives to see seventeen.

His face reads ' _now she's done it_ ', but his heart sings with appreciation. He had no idea she was this opposed to marriage, the truth being that he has a tendency to tune out such matters.

During the moment of stunned silence, he muses that his daughter is either very brave or very stupid. He is unable to come to a conclusion on the subject.

* * *

 


	10. Like Mother

* * *

As Queen Elinor attempts to gaze out the library's floor-to-ceiling window, she supposes that it would be an understatement to say there is endless fog.

Overnight, mist had rolled into the Highlands after a weeklong rainstorm. Now, the bleary fog is settled in thick folds over the forests and Castle DunBroch, effectively lowering the spirits of those in its grasp. Even Merida has surrendered to the gloom as she combs a diplomatic affairs book by her mother's side (pouting all the while). Despite her protests that she knows the surrounding woods like the back of her hand, the Princess will not be allowed to venture into the clouded air to possibly lose her way and catch her death of cold.

After the defeat of Mor'du, Elinor's lenient mood—however temporary—caused the Princess to fall behind in her lessons somewhat. The circumstances, however unfortunate, provide an opportunity for her to catch up. The girl reluctantly agreed to continue her lessons, aware that the weather (and her mother) offers her little choice otherwise.

The Queen's steady needle weaves through the embroidery cloth on her lap, and Merida reads quietly for a decent stretch of time before flopping facedown on top of the text.

" _Och_ , mum, how much more of this must I choke down?" she groans, her words muffled by a river of thick red hair, curly as ever in the humidity.

"Merida, don't be dramatic," Elinor chides. "I haven't asked much; just read the three chapters on taxes and ye'll be done for the day."

Merida lifts her head an inch, and peers at her mother through her bangs. Elinor hasn't looked up from her sewing, and Merida watches, hypnotized, as the needle dips in-and-out, in-and-out with perfect rhythm.

"Fine. Then we can do something fun?" she asks hopefully.

Elinor pauses in her work and with a lift of her head she considers her daughter. Their relationship has undergone a healthy amount of mending these past months, but it pleases the Queen to no end when Merida makes an extra effort to spend time with her.

"We'll see," she says, smiling gentler than her singing heart would prefer, and resumes her stitching. With a dramatic sigh, the Princess turns back to the yellowing volume. Her determination to finish catches up shortly and silence falls once more.

It is clear that there will be no more interruptions and Elinor easily withdraws into her thoughts. For a Princess, Merida is fairly unusual; the girl's passion lies mostly in hobbies that involve weapons and the wild outdoors. The Queen will never again try to suppress these unorthodox pursuits, because Merida would not be herself without them. She can only impress royal duties upon her daughter in  _addition_  to the rather unmannerly interests—not as an alternative.

Even now, when the Princess is cooped up indoors, her favorite bow is propped with care against a nearby bookshelf. It is slightly charred, which stirs a hint of regret in Elinor every time she glances at it, but beyond that imperfection the well-polished bow leans proudly in its spot.

The Queen possesses a new understanding for this particular pastime of her daughter's. Before, she had simply viewed it as an unladylike sport, something to be discouraged or at least strictly controlled. But in Mor'du's cave that hazy day, Elinor saw Merida use archery for self defense for the very first time, rather than for offensive attack against a target or as silly recreation.

It changes a woman, to see her daughter in such a position.

Once, Elinor had been like Merida. A young and fearless Princess with hair that streamed in her wake, independent of braids and royal duty. She, too, had ridden a favorite horse through mountain paths, whooping without care as the wind nipped at her cheeks. Though she had never found pleasure in sword or axe, little Elinor certainly engaged in a fair share of forbidden activities…

…Including archery.

As a girl, Elinor had found refuge from her stifling royalty lessons in the graceful art. Often stealing away to the deep recesses of the glen in order to practice, with a weapon given to her by a mischievous cousin she successfully honed her skill until she was a near expert.

Then she had come of age, and everything changed.

Elinor's hesitancy about the necessary betrothal was soon swept away as a young Fergus had wooed her, and she still truly loves him. But her beloved bow went untouched the day they met, and so it remains. Part of her had fought Merida's attraction to bow and arrow out of fear that she would one day be forced to abandon them, as Elinor had. But times and tradition are changing rapidly, and she hopes that her lass will find the future to be in her favor.

"Done!" The girl in question announces with a triumphant grin, and Elinor is startled from her melancholy thoughts.

"Oh, really? Every page read and not merely skimmed?"

Merida rolls her cerulean eyes expertly. "Mum,  _yes_. I promise."

The Queen sets her square of weighty cloth aside. "Very well. What do ye have in mind for the rest of the afternoon?"

With a thoughtful expression, Merida taps one finger on the tightly shut book. "Well, we could have a game of hide-and-seek," she suggests.

"Ye don't think ye're a bit old?" Elinor raises an eyebrow. Thoughts of a birthday flit through her mind, and she realizes that it is one of her last memories of them playing the game.

"If anyone's old, it's  _you_! Find me if ye can!" the Princess shouts gleefully, and dances out of the room with a wave.

Elinor gives her a few seconds head start before standing to smooth her garnet-colored dress, and strides from the library with a lightened temperament, the depressing fog all but forgotten.

* * *

 


	11. Sword Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble expands on one of the shorts that they released to promote Brave. Needless to say, Disney/Pixar owns all

* * *

Merida groans at the prospect of a history lesson, especially from her famously inarticulate father. To her delight, the moment that Queen Elinor closes the door, King Fergus unceremoniously flings the textbooks aside and pulls out his sword.

"How 'bout a  _real_  lesson?" he asks with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

The Princess wastes no time. With a shout, she leaps from behind the desk. Books and papers scatter into the air, but she pays no attention.

Inspiration strikes the King, and he decides to kill two birds with one stone.

"What d'ya know o' the Clan DunBroch?" shouts Fergus, thinking that he may appease his wife after all, while testing Merida's ability to multitask.

They begin their battle, and the screeching sound of steel against steel fills the air. She speaks without hesitation, and he notes that her concentration is rather remarkable.

"They are  _fierce_! Protectors o' the land!"

As they dance around each other, Fergus gives the occasional critique.

"Mind yer balance," he says, before asking about the Clan's ruling members.

"Elinor, the Queen, is the diplomat. And a lady of  _great virtue_ ," Merida waves her hand in the air in a parody of her mother, causing Fergus to admonish her for pausing (despite his urge to laugh at the imitation).

"Keep yer guard up," he growls, determined to keep the "lesson" on track.

Merida continues to hold her own against his weapon, and she continues her recitation as they sweep across the room.

"Hamish, Hubert and Harris are the three Princes," she says fondly, and drives her father towards a cupboard where the triplets in question drop a pig trophy on Fergus's head with perfect timing.

"What the—?" he grounds out, suddenly blind.

"Greedy little devils they are!" Merida shakes her head towards them, and her momentary distraction allows Fergus the opportunity to remove the hindrance.

"Aye, and what of the Princess?" he continues with raised eyebrows, curious as to how Merida will present herself.

"Oh, Merida is the best archer in the land!" she brags, and takes a swing that reaches dangerously close to his remaining leg. He blocks the attack, and they fight on.

_Modest as ever_ , he thinks proudly.  _Takes after her valiant father, no doubt._

But her boasting is well earned. "Whoa!" he yells as she nearly swipes his left arm off, and he ducks out of the way just in time.

Merida spins the sword in one hand, and strikes a dignified pose. "And not bad with sword, either!" she manages before her father starts up his attack again.

Their blades clash for several moments before Fergus quite obviously fishes for a compliment.

"Very good, now tell me about the King," he demands, before adding, "Fight with force!"

Merida is nimble on her feet and excellent at strategizing, but her small form means that she lacks the brute strength behind her attacks.

"Their father and ruler is Fergus, the Bear King," she says with good humor, successfully dodging his advance. Fergus chuckles at the title, and gestures for her to go on.

"Well known for 'is  _exceptional_  bravery, handsomeness, an' good humor—!"

He thinks she's getting a little sarcastic there for a moment, and it wouldn't hurt to knock her off balance. She gasps as he knocks the sword from her hand, and it goes flying into the cupboard.

Fergus laughs again, and stalks towards where she has run across the room to retrieve her weapon. "Correct! And what is the symbol o' the Clan DunBroch?" he roars, but Merida does not cower before his imposing form. Instead, she whistles, and her brothers toss her the sword (it takes the three of them to even lift it).

"The mighty sword!" she answers with a grin, taking a defensive stance once more, and Fergus gives an enthusiastic war cry. It doesn't take much to excite him, and his daughter's identical interest simply encourages him.

At that moment, Elinor peeps her head around the door, wearing an inquisitive expression. No doubt the entire castle has heard them hooting and hollering, and in their commotion they'd forgotten that the Queen was likely to check up on them.

"How is the lesson…?" Her face swiftly adopts a frown as she spots the swords poorly hidden behind their backs, and the triplets giggle from their perch at the thought of the trouble that their father and sister are surely in.

Despite the fact that Elinor's face clearly indicates that she knows exactly what they are up to, Merida sheepishly grabs a book from the desk and pecks her father on the cheek.

"Best lesson I had all week, thanks, Dad!" she says innocently.

"No problem, m'wee darlin'," he says chastely. He then whispers something that sounds suspiciously to Elinor like  _'to be continued'_ , and the Queen sweeps out of the room with a roll of the eyes. Honestly, raising five children is  _such_  a hassle sometimes.

* * *

 


	12. Dingwall and Merida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Merida sings in this chapter is called 'Chì mi na mórbheanna', or, 'The Mist Covered Mountains'. It is a Gaelic song written in the 1800's (so obviously way after Merida's time), but I thought it fitting. The translation is posted at the end of the chapter.

* * *

"Well, clearly  _somebody_  knows how to play a 'C'."

With arms crossed, Merida says this in a voice that sounds a bit more annoyed then she'd intended. She and Wee Dingwall are pent up in the Great Parlor, waiting for the afternoon rain to recede. He is only here for a short visit, while the Lord Dingwall conferences over politics with his King. With much dragging of her feet, Merida agreed to keep the Clan's firstborn company.

Several minutes ago, the Princess watched with curiosity as the lad casually picked up one of her lyres that'd been left propped against the hearth. He had quickly proven to be rather practiced at the instrument. Part of Merida is jealous, while her better half is simply impressed at Dingwall's obvious talent. (She may even respect him a wee bit.)

She tries not to gape as he plucks at the strings with fluid movements, tartan cuffs pushed up towards his elbows. What happened to the lad that can't even use a breakfast fork without maiming himself?

Merida asks him, in gentler terms, how he came to possess such a knack for music.

"Me mum and I like t' play together," he mumbles bashfully, and Merida uncrosses her arms. Her cobalt-hued dress is thick and woolen, which is appropriate for this time of year as the season fades to winter.

"Huh. Ye're good indeed," Merida compliments him, before leaning her head on one hand. Her embroidered sleeve falls back with the motion, exposing a delicate brass cuff.

"'S a nice bracelet," Dingwall comments, playing the same light tune all the while. Merida recognizes it as a traditional song of her clan, and wonders how the boy across from her knows it. He is, after all, from a land somewhat distant from theirs.

"Thanks," she says, fingering the bangle. It is set with deep blue stones, and compliments her eyes nicely. "It was a gift from Mum, on me sixteenth birthday."

She's taken to wearing it lately. It serves as a nice reminder that her mother really is looking out for her best interests and is admittedly her style besides. (It's practical, too, with a sturdy clasp that doesn't budge while she rides and shoots.)

"Anyways, where'd ye learn to play that song?" she asks upon remembering her interest. She knows very little of his family history, but it's possible that one of his relatives is familiar with DunBroch culture.

Dingwall shrugs. "I learned it from a visiting music tutor once. There are words, I think, but I don't remember 'em."

Merida waits until his tune starts over, and with an ounce of courage she opens her mouth:

_O chì, chì mi na mòr-bheanna_   
_O chì, chì mi na còrr-bheanna_   
_O chì, chì mi na coireachan_   
_Chì mi na sgoran fo cheò_

Her voice is high and clear, and she accompanies the melody without effort. Wee Dingwall gives her an encouraging nod, and the Princess brings to mind the rest of the words of a song that she has not heard in many years.

_Chì mi gun dàil an t-àite san d'rugadh mi_   
_Cuirear orm fàilte sa chànain a thuigeas mi_   
_Gheibh mi ann aoidh agus gràdh nuair a ruigeam_   
_Nach reicinn air tunnachan òir_

They duet for some time until the lad pauses in his movements. Merida sighs from the sudden nostalgia that stirs inside her, provoked by the lilting music.

"Ye've a lovely singing voice, Princess," he compliments her, and she shakes her head earnestly.

"I only wish I was blessed with half yer musical talent, lad," she replies. "I just don't have the patience."

Dingwall gently sets down the instrument. His lyre at home isn't nearly as nice, and he admires it greatly. "Sometimes our talents lie elsewhere," he says, and Merida can't agree more with her friend.

So maybe his blond hair sticks up every which way, and he's a biter, and his eyes aren't always full of awareness. But she's glad that Dingwall let her in on his secret, and she decides to arrange for a custom-made lyre to be sent on his next coming birthday.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation
> 
> Oh, I see, I see the great mountains  
> Oh, I see, I see the lofty mountains  
> Oh, I see, I see the corries  
> I see the peaks beneath the mist
> 
> I see, straight away, the place of my birth  
> I will be welcomed in a language which I understand  
> I will receive hospitality and love when I reach there  
> That I would not trade for a ton of gold


	13. Elinor and Merida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Movie dialogue belongs to Disney/Pixar. Thanks for reading!

* * *

" _You've changed!"_

" _Oh, darling. We both have."_

* * *

Later, when they have returned to the castle and Queen Elinor has been dressed in real clothing, Merida lingers in her mother's private chambers as the latter gains some well-deserved rest. The Princess is rather exhausted herself, but the recent events have left her rattled by the memory of nearly losing Elinor forever, and she will stay by her side for now, thank you very much. With that thought, Merida settles into a chair near the bed, having no desire to abandon the room despite the siren call of her own mattress.

Meanwhile, her mother slumbers easily, dark hair splayed across the pillows in a smooth and endless stream, not a leaf or twig in sight. Merida glances at her own unruly mop, which is populated with dirt and vegetation—not an unexpected outcome after two days in the forest—then back at the pristine, sleeping form in the bed. It would seem that the physical contrast between her and Elinor is unchanged.

Merida thinks that, appearances aside, the Queen radiates quiet peace, with her face entirely smooth of worry. She supposes that even while unconscious, her mother is full of content that she has protected her daughter and kingdom. The girl bites her lip, aware that she hasn't yet properly thanked her, despite the emotion that she tried to convey through their long overdue embrace once Elinor changed back. That hug, in fact, was their first in years, another thing Merida is feeling guilty about.

A single tear makes its way down her cheek—she's cried more this week than in her whole life put together, she realizes—and she hastily wipes it away, embarrassed at her foolishness though there is no one awake to witness it. But she can't help it. Elinor had almost died—had almost been  _killed_ —and no matter how many times she'd wished her mother would get off her back, Merida would be lost without her. Her eyes continue to water on their own accord, and before she knows it, she is sobbing silently.

Merida is surprised when her mother's eyelids flutter open, for her stifled crying made no noise whatsoever. Perhaps Elinor simply sensed her daughter's distress, even deep in dreams. Upon observing the girl's pitiful expression, her brow furrows in worry.

"Merida, darling—what is the matter?" the Queen murmurs, brown eyes hazy from sleep and general exhaustion, but no less concerned.

She struggles to sit up, for the transition from bear to woman has left her feeling quite sore from tip to toe, and Merida quickly reaches over to stack the pillows behind her for support. When she is sufficiently upright, Elinor folds her hands in her lap and looks at her daughter with patient expectancy. The Queen can't help but glance at her hands—were they so slender before, so pale? But they are much lighter than paws, and certainly more than one weight has been lifted from her body. Elinor-the-human is fragile, compared to a bear, but her spirit is equally strong.

Merida sniffs once, and absentmindedly picks up a piece of Elinor's hair. It's strange, to see it unbraided, and she understands that because it makes her mother seem much younger, she ties it in order to be taken seriously. She wonders if Elinor would still make that choice, if she weren't royalty.

As Merida plays with the silky strand, she voices the subject that's been on her mind.

"I—I have so many things to say to ye. I don't where to begin," she admits from the bedside. Merida cannot possibly know that Elinor actually heard her tearful confession in the circle of stones, though as a bear it was impossible for her to reply. As far as the Queen is concerned, her daughter has already redeemed herself tenfold.

Elinor's eyes comb Merida's messy form. Though it is nearly half a day later, the young woman hasn't bathed or changed, and there are plenty of leaves and other forest souvenirs in her hair. Then mother's gaze lands on her right arm, where her torn sleeve exposes an angry red gash. The Queen's serenity instantly vanishes and one hand flies to her lips.

"Oh," Elinor gasps, "Just  _look_  at yer arm!"

Her daughter's porcelain skin is covered with grime in more places than one, but the nasty laceration in her arm is Elinor's own fault.

Merida appraises the gash in her sleeve with a frown. Now that she notices it, the cut stings like mad. She recalls the moments over the past few days when Elinor-the-bear had seemed to lose touch with her humanity. Those instances had Merida feeling truly terrified, especially the one resulting in this cut, though they were a picnic compared to getting up close and personal with Mor'du.

But she swallows; the wound can be dealt with later.

"No, it's fine," Merida says, looking away in order to pluck some twigs from her tangled locks.  _It's not as bad as what could have happened_  is what she doesn't verbalize.

It is too late—the injury has triggered Elinor, and her face crumples in pain. The events of the past few days come rushing into her head, and it is almost too much to bear at once. She cannot help but let out an anguished sound.

Merida looks up to meet the Queen's devastated gaze, and feels a jolt of anxiety. It's not unusual for Elinor to express herself when irritable or indulgent or fond or the like, but she masks her more important feelings with a practiced hand. Merida cannot recall the last time they had a true heartfelt conversation without one or both of them hiding their hurt by exploding in anger, and this display of pure emotion has her at a loss. It kills Merida to see her mother so beyond collection, vulnerable and upset.

"Mum, you musn't worry. I'll be  _fine_. Ye weren't  _tryin'_  to hurt me. Dad was after you and ye had to protect yerself!"

But Elinor isn't listening, which is apparent by her increasing horror.

" _I could've killed you_ ," she moans, her face in her hands. "My  _daughter_ , my—my very own flesh and blood—!" her voice cracks from unbearable pain as she breaks down in sobs, unable to articulate further.

"Stop blaming yerself," Merida growls. "I behaved like a child, even daring to change you!" she cries, desperate to soothe Elinor's sudden hysterics.

Merida succeeds in uncovering her mother's face, and she grasps her hands tightly. Still, Elinor cannot meet her daughter's eyes. She bows her head instead, allowing loose hair to fall into her face and mingle with dampened cheeks. The gesture is one of fierce shame for herself.

"Mum, tell me what ye're thinkin," Merida pleads.

Elinor draws a shaky breath, and finally looks up. Her expression is still one of intense sadness, but she speaks in a steady tone.

"I am thinking, Merida, that I have failed you in more ways than one."

Merida begins to protest, but the Queen's hard gaze silences her at once.

"I am thinking that it is my duty as a mother to protect you, and yet I allowed ye to explore that cave and provoke Mor'du. I am remembering how I  _felt_  yer fear, from even across the clearin', when Mor'Du was upon ye. Yes, he is defeated now, but had fate not been on our side, the consequences would be unthinkable."

Merida obviously remembers the scene well, despite fervently wishing to erase the whole thing. She knows that defeating the evil bear had less to do with fate and more to do with her mother's bravery, but he says nothing and waits for Elinor to continue.

"I am thinking that before this incident, our relationship had been strained for quite some time, and that is mostly my own fault. I am thinking that I acted more queen than mother where your upbringing is concerned, and that I didn't even realize the damage until we went fishing yesterday."

The princess furrows her brow, knowing that she is to blame for their rocky relationship as well. And was it really only  _yesterday_? She tries to respond, but Elinor is not finished.

"Merida, that was the first time I saw you in a context where you truly belong, rather than in the binds of my impossible expectations for you as a future ruler. It was only yesterday that I became aware: I am missing my daughter's life. I am  _missing_  you."

By now, the tears are flowing freely down both of their faces. It takes tremendous strength for Elinor to continue without allowing her voice to crack.

"I am sorry that it took turning into a bear for me to see that. Had I comprehended the magnitude of our situation before then, perhaps none of this—" Elinor gestures around the bedchamber at the overturned furniture and broken glass, before her eyes fall on the scratches on Merida's face and neck, "—would have happened."

At these words, the princess takes a good look at the room for the first time. Her eyes trail around, going from one piece of smashed furniture to the next, before resting on the pool of torn green silk in the middle of the stone floor. She can only imagine what her father thought when he happened upon this scene. No wonder he had been driven to attack the beast he thought responsible.

Elinor takes a breath. "Of course, material things can be mended. It is the intangible that requires far more attention. But I mistreated yours and my kinship, and spent so many years attempting to impress my will onto you that I did not stop to consider that at some point along the way, we became adversaries," she says wistfully.

The Queen places one hand on either side of her daughter's face. "You must know—I never wanted that, love. Not ever."

"Neither did I!" Merida cuts in with a wet sniff. "Honest. I guess we both just had the wrong idea, and really, this whole incident helped us figure out what's right."

Elinor nods, hands dropping back to her lap. "Don't you see, Merida? Do you understand, now, just how important it is to communicate and cooperate with one another? How positively  _vital_  it is?"

The princess nods eagerly. "I do now, Mum. We can't change the past, but we have been given a gift. We can learn from this and above all, we can listen—I to you, and you to me."

Finally, Elinor allows for a slight smile. "I do hope that is what's in store for us, darling. I will certainly give it my all."

The speech has drained her somewhat, and she relaxes back against the pillow for a moment, letting her eyes flutter shut.

"By the way, it's not  _all_  your fault, ye know. I would've gone into the cave either way," Merida says matter-of-factly.

Elinor's eyes flit open. "Be that as it may, I suppose I was halfway curious myself. It's not often that legends drop into your lap like that and present themselves for unearthing."

Merida grins widely. "We've more in common then we thought, aye?"

Elinor's mouth twitches. The lass is indeed correct; she can see that now. Only time will tell for certain, but the Queen feels sure that things will have changed for the better from this point on. Not without great effort, of course, but positive changes in their relationship are on the horizon nonetheless.

"Mum, thank you," Merida says suddenly.

The Queen surveys her quizzically.

"Ye saved us all. Ye acted as valiantly when a bear, as ye do when ye're a lady. So I thank ye," Merida says seriously, bowing her head.

She feels the truth of the statement with every ounce of her being, for she appreciates her mother's role now more than ever. At the very least, no one will ever dare say that the Queen is not a fighter in her own right. She may prefer the quill to a sword, but has proved her capability as a protector for all to see, and no one will ever forget it.

"We've both learned plenty from this ordeal," Elinor says finally. "I expect that ye've grown up a bit," she adds with a tiny smile.

Merida smiles back weakly, unable to feel anything but relief at the moment. Well, and gratefulness that Elinor thinks her worthy as a confidant.

A few minutes pass as brown eyes silently look into watery blue ones. Merida feels like she could stare at her mum's beautiful,  _human_  face forever. She can see the affection in her mother's expression, as well as the unspoken pain. She knows that the Queen is probably still holding herself responsible for everything, but they can continue that argument another day.

When Merida unintentionally winces, Elinor's softened gaze travels back to the obviously painful injury.

"I'll send for the court healer immediately," she says firmly. "Yer arm must be looked at before it catches infection."

To her surprise, Merida nods compliantly. "No need for ye to do that. I'll go to her now. Ye should probably rest more, anyway."

Merida hugs her for several long seconds, and Elinor threads one hand through the thick red curls. She breathes in fully, and while her human sense of smell is duller than that of the bear, she is beyond relieved that Merida no longer smells like food to her. She savors the feel of her human arms around her daughter, and kisses her forehead—something she had been unable to do while a beast, and she will not take it for granted ever again.

Someday, Merida will make an able ruler. But for now she is Elinor's daughter, and neither would change that for the world.

* * *

 


	14. Anticipation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please advise that a potentially upsetting topic is touched upon in the beginning of this chapter. On that note, I suppose it could be rated higher than K+. It contains by no means an unhappy ending, but there is a fair share of angst. There is also (mild) sexytimes! So depending on how you feel: beware/enjoy.

* * *

_Pregnant._

The court physician confirmed her suspicions last week with a careful examination and a swift nod, causing the well-known mixture of pleased excitement and crushing despair to well inside her at once.

The Queen should be happy. Ecstatic, even. In the near future, the Clan DunBroch and its kingdom will welcome an heir to the crown; the first under King Fergus.

And yet…

It is difficult for Elinor to muster up the proper enthusiasm. Does she dare hope, against all odds, that this time she will not miscarry, that this unborn kin may have a fighting chance to greet the open world?

She is rosy-cheeked and strong at her age—one-and-twenty—but these past years have not been kind in other ways. Fergus is appropriately supportive, but they do not discuss in detail how it affects Elinor. How she wishes to scream sometimes, or even just have a good long cry. How her longing for a child increases with every instance of failure. These instances are, at this point, countless in number. It is a fact of their circumstances that even those who enjoy the epitome of health—and as Queen, this certainly applies to her—experience continuous disappointment in the dark days before a child is finally born.

Still reeling from her visit with the doctor, she ponders the possibilities as she studies her weary reflection in a small looking glass. Will there be the familiar blood, once more staining the rich fabric of her skirts, and leaving a more permanent mark on her weathered spirit?

She has no choice but to wait.

* * *

When several months elapse without conflict, a new light finally arrives in her eyes. Though the possibility of a miscarriage still exists, it is time for preparations to be made with a positive attitude. Elinor finds that her shoulders relax the tiniest bit with each passing milestone, and in her fifth month, after a very contemplative hour in her private chambers, she decides to inform her public.

Elinor is a popular Queen, not just because her given title demands it, but on account of the fact that the people respect her. She governs the kingdom with grace and wisdom, and the citizens of lands both High and Low count their stars often that such a ruler leads them. At the announcement that the Queen is with child, the entire kingdom celebrates the forthcoming blessing for a week straight.

Elinor bows her head in thanks at the news of her country's enthusiasm, but cannot help privately doubting herself. She is capable of ruling over thousands—but knows not the first idea about mothering one person. Soon, a tiny lad or lass will look to her for guidance, the same as its neighbors, but he or she will share her very blood.

It scares Elinor to the core.

* * *

Childbearing is an ageless tradition, and Elinor has always been in favor of tradition.

But  _goodness,_  it is tiring—!

The fatigue is definitely unwanted, especially for a lady of her position, and heaven help those who dare cross her during a mood change (namely, her well-meaning but often obtuse husband). He is there every moment that duty allows; with a stool for her feet, a cool cloth for her forehead, a soft warm bun to nibble on in attempts to calm her distressed stomach. The attention drives her crazy at first, but soon the Queen admits (to herself, of course, never aloud) that it is nice to be taken care of for a change.

As she rounds with her pregnancy, the King is filled with a never-ending fascination as he observes the changes in his love. (Her slender form swells in places he hadn't anticipated, which proves to be quite distracting for him. She often reminds him plainly that if he cannot concentrate on his duties, she will personally supervise his punishment when the kingdom collapses.) He feels lucky to witness such a miracle, and the thought of someday teaching his child the necessary skills of life is enough to make him tug at his whiskers in anticipation.

One day, he is called into the castle's dressmaking rooms, where Elinor stands on a pedestal to be measured for a new gown. At this moment, the tailor is carefully winding a tape measure around her body while Elinor lifts her thick braids out of the way. Despite the dressmaker's professional manners, Fergus must resist the jealous urge to crush the puny man into a pulp. (His hands would be the first to go.)

At his approach, the Queen peers over her shoulder with an anxious expression.

"Ah, Fergus. Come here," she beckons, releasing her hair, and he steps gingerly around the breakable-looking dress forms. The King suppresses a curse as he narrowly avoids slipping on some yards of shimmering fabric.

Needless to say, the fierce defender of DunBroch has little patience for trivial matters such as sewing.

Elinor taps her foot nervously as she waits for him to settle. Even in her current elevated position, he towers at least three heads over her. But as always, their difference in height has no effect on her impressive disposition.

Once Fergus is situated in front of her, he puzzles over why he has been summoned.

"Wot is it, dear? Nothin's wrong…?" he asks, concerned out of habit.

To come this far…but  _no_ , he mustn't think like that, and besides, Elinor seems peaceful enough to him. Still, his knowledge on the subject of women's moods is rather limited. (He's learning fast, but not always fast enough.)

"No, no, I'm absolutely fine. But somethin'…" she trails off and clasps her hands under her stomach, suddenly shy.

With a pointed look from his King, the tailor bows and scurries out of the room, tape measure trailing in his wake. Fergus then turns back to Elinor, whose lips are pursed in hesitation—which is anything but typical for her. What is going on?

When she remains silent, his patience promptly runs out. "Out with it, lass!"

Elinor's lovely face suddenly brightens with excitement, and she grabs his right hand, placing it flush against her swollen midsection. His blue eyes widen with awe as he feels a fluttering sensation of something unmistakably alive.

"Aye," Fergus murmurs in the direction of their hands, voice full of amazement. "That's a strong lad, that is."

Elinor narrows her eyes at this. She called him in here to share the curious experience, but his statement has reminded her that the future is still deeply mysterious, and even more terrifying.

"And wot if it's a girl?" she challenges.

She has no idea either way, and of course a boy is preferred, but the certainty in his voice annoys her for some reason.

His grin widens. "I'd better beware, then, 'cause I dunno if I can handle another one of ye," he teases.

The babe gives another kick, much firmer this time, and Elinor giggles at her husband's astounded gasp.

"That's a lot o' might for such a wee one," Fergus manages, rather dazed from the wonder of it all. He stays like this for some time, until Elinor gently tugs at his frozen hand, reminding him that he can't linger there forever.

With a twinkle in his eye he draws his other hand forward and settles them both on her hips. While generous, they are small in comparison to his fingers, which meet around her backside in a gentle squeeze. Elinor blushes at the contact, but does not protest.

"I love ye so much," Fergus says affectionately. "Dear, beautiful lass."

Her cheeks redden further, and she can only whisper her identical answer. She's rarely so incapable of controlling her emotions, but pregnancy has had this effect on her lately.

Fergus places a tender kiss on her forehead, and she can't help but radiate simple joy towards him. Few would deny that the Queen often glows with her condition, but her husband cherishes the private moments between them. When she gazes at him directly with unabashed love, the action reinstates that Elinor is his alone. Of this, he is infinitely proud.

At the moment, Elinor's thoughts hold nothing besides pure adoration for the King. But when his touch obviously begins to slip towards her bottom, she jumps as she remembers who and where they are.

"Goodness, Fergus!" she says in a near shriek, and swats his enormous shoulder. "You ought to contain yerself," she scolds, despite her personal feelings on the matter (she blames the hormones). It is daytime, and therefore displays of affection such as these are entirely inappropriate.

"Aw, ye worry too much, darlin'."

"The tailor will come back sometime, dear. I do need my dress completed eventually."

A predatory look crosses his face.

"That ol' tumshie of a lad won't return until I'm gone, if he knows wot's good for 'im."

" _Fergus_."

He grunts in reluctant surrender. "Fine, but if he so much as sticks ye with a pin by accident, just holler, ye hear?"

"I do hope I survive the  _harrowing_  task of havin' a garment made," she says bitterly. And with that mood swing, Fergus backs out of the room with a squeaky  _'course, dear_ , and his hands held high in the air.

* * *

 


	15. Mother Bear

* * *

At this point in time, the future is looking beyond bleak to Elinor-the-bear.

Firstly, her own people have tied her up as if she is a common wild beast. The Queen supposes that to them, she  _is_  currently a bear for all intents and purposes. In the dim torchlight, they cannot by any means see the bear's unusual light brown irises, and are too distracted by the unfolding chaos to notice that she is unusually cognizant for an animal.

They are also under the definitive orders of the person who most wants her dead: her husband, King Fergus.

And then there is the problem concerning her sense of self. Elinor is constantly warring with the animal instincts that threaten to engulf her human conscience for good, thus causing her much difficulty in her attempts to observe the display of events.

She watches helplessly from her constrained position, heart beating the same as if she were human, as Merida matches her father's sword skills. Elinor feels a tremendous sense of self-loathing that she has put her daughter in such a position. Merida's defensive act is courageous, sure—but it is also entirely dangerous to cross Fergus in his state of rage. Furthermore, her fighting will only temporarily delay the moment when Elinor gasps her last breath, inevitably dead before sunrise.

Oh, how she wishes she were human!

As if to taunt her further, the ever-present bear in Elinor becomes distracted by the shine of the metal blade, as well as the tasty morsel of a being that it belongs to. She fights to keep her head; now is not the time and she must think of a plan before…!

But her already scattered thoughts are interrupted by Fergus's impatient roar.

" _MERIDA!_ "

Elinor can see that the King has moved past his confusion at Merida's intervention, and he is consumed with one desire alone:  _slaughter the beast._ But her daughter is equally stubborn in her course of action, and with a burst of energy, she pushes her father back.

"I'll not let ye kill my mother!" she cries, and continues to hold her own for a few more endless seconds. Elinor's heart breaks several times over as she watches the Princess plant herself in her father's path once more. It is one thing for the Queen to lose her own life, but she could not stand it if  _Merida_  were to—!  _No_ , it is unthinkable!

And as if her severe worry for one child is not enough, Elinor watches in horror as the triplets make an appearance (still in the form of bear cubs, of course). She feels very near to passing out, for now each of her kin risks—at the very least—being stampeded by a circle of warriors anxious to kill the first thing that moves.

Despite the Queen's almost intolerable dread, the tiny bears leap onto Fergus's shoulders, gathering Merida's attention as well.

"Boys!" she shouts, and Elinor detects a hint of fear in her voice, forever the protector of her brothers.

Her husband halts, completely taken aback. "Boys?"

Elinor struggles in her rope shackles, hope sinking by every minute. She is not a physical fighter by nature—that is left to Fergus (and unfortunately, Merida). But she must do something before situation grows worse, if that is even possible…

And at that moment, it absolutely,  _positively_  worsens.

"Mor'du!" Merida gasps, and Fergus's target switches instantaneously as he turns away from his daughter into the direct gaze of his nemesis.

"KILL IT!" he commands, and the party eagerly begins their attack upon the real beast. Elinor's attention is captured for a time as the madness of full-on battle breaks out, and men are flung right and left—including Fergus.

She notices just in time that the devil bear has cornered Merida.

Elinor's head seems close to bursting. She should have realized why Mor'du's retaliation to the Lord's advances was strictly defensive: he was after one individual only, that being the creature that provoked his cave earlier that day. Elinor shuts her eyes and lets out a frustrated growl, her snout vibrating with panic. What should she do? What  _can_  she do?

Then she remembers. The cracked pillar! Perhaps all is not yet lost. If she collapses the stone on top of the legendary beast, that will surely destroy it. Satisfied with her plan, Elinor reopens her eyes to the sight of Mor'du hovering above Merida, about to go in for the kill shot.

_No_ …

Merida is more than the heir to the Crown, more than a girl to be molded into something perfect and proper.

She is Elinor's only daughter, and she is inches from death.

_NO!_

With all of her might, the Queen strains against the thick ropes. At once, they break around her, and she is across the clearing in an instant.

For once, she lets the ursine qualities take over. She attacks the monstrous animal and thinks little of it, driven by the intense rage against the demon that would dare steal her daughter's life. Elinor can see now that the job of ending Mor'du is hers alone, and she will not waste her strength of ten men, whether this hexed form is permanent or not.

After several minutes of brawling, with a few close calls involving both her and Merida, Elinor receives the opportunity to carry out her final intentions. With the muscle of at least a dozen men at this point, she smashes Mor'du against the fractured boulder. With one final blow, the pillar completely cracks and crushes him to death.

The spirit of the Prince, imprisoned for generations, is released with a quiet  _whoosh_. His apparation nods to Elinor and Merida in gratitude for their deed, and then disappears, leaving a ghostly blue Will-o-the-Wisp in his place.

Somewhere in the forest, a bird screeches in the silence. A brisk wind stirs the area, and then the Wisp too is gone.

* * *

 


	16. Hesitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this chapter was to expand on the scene in the movie where Merida is dressed for the Games. I apologize if it's a little awkward how it switches POVs!

* * *

"Merida, do at least  _try_  to sit still until I am finished. A princess should possess grace and patience, we've been over this."

Queen Elinor frowns as she tugs the comb through her daughter's tangled red mane. They have been at it for nearly ten minutes now, and Elinor is appalled at the amount of leaves and twigs still embedded in Merida's hair. What does she do, roll in the stuff?

Merida groans dramatically in response to Elinor's exasperated nagging. Grace and patience, indeed. Easy for her to say; Elinor was probably born with those qualities. But the Princess knows it's important to pick her battles, and so she keeps her mouth closed until her mum is done.

With a tiny grunt of effort, Elinor wrestles Merida's thick curls into a tight bun, and shoves the whole thing into a wimple.

"There!" she says with a note of triumph in her voice. After tucking in an escaped tendril, she carefully places Merida's diadem on her head. She then steps back with a sigh of contentment, and looks the girl up and down.

"You look absolutely beautiful," the Queen proclaims, actually a bit choked up.

Merida can only stare at her mum, seriously questioning her sanity. She'd like to give Elinor's corset a few ruthless tugs. See how  _she_  likes it.

"I…I can't  _breathe_!" the Princess complains, every word full of hatred for the situation.

Elinor ignores her protests. "Give us a twirl," she says cheerfully, miming the action with her finger.

The girl scowls up at her mother—between the expertly laced bodice, the skintight silk dress, and the fitted cap, she feels remarkably like a stuffed sausage. Furthermore, Elinor is enjoying this way too much.

Using the opportunity to ham it up as much as possible, Merida shapes her features into her best look of utter devastation and turns rigidly at the Queen's command. But it is all for naught (as her mum would say) because Elinor is only looking at her finished project with stars in her eyes.

"It's perfect," she breathes, drawing her slender hands to her mouth. Her long sleeves fall away in a gentle wave, and in that moment Merida harbors an immense envy towards Elinor, who is allowed to wear loose fabric while the Princess suffers in her silk prison.

This is so unfair.

Elinor continues to examine her work while Merida rolls her eyes in annoyance. She's already being offered up like a fancy piece of meat to the suitors; must her mother also treat her as a doll to be dressed?

Because she is glaring up at the Queen, Merida notices immediately when Elinor's expression shifts to something that resembles compassion. She can only wonder what is on her mum's mind.

* * *

Elinor scrutinizes her formally-dressed daughter with a pleased air, despite musing that she would appreciate if Merida would  _for once_  just cooperate without the rudeness and muttering. In order for her to rise to the throne one day, the girl must be groomed and there is no room for disagreement.

She thinks of her latest project, wishing life were truly what could be stitched into a tapestry: a proper and content family. They have been blessed, of course, but there is always room for improvement. In particular, to Elinor it seems that with every argument, the wall between her and her daughter grows. And over time, that wall has come to feel as high and thick as the walls of Castle DunBroch itself.

Merida has said some things lately; things that hurt from their implication that Elinor has no regard for the Princess's feelings. It isn't true that Elinor does not care for her daughter's opinion—no, that isn't it at all. The fact of the matter is that as royals, they must serve in the favor of the people before their personal interests.

While the Queen is used to this, the Princess is only recently discovering the principle.

She knows that Merida is not ready for marriage. But is there anything at all she can say to convey her sympathy for the girl?

"Merida," she starts delicately.

The resistant look on Merida's face recedes, melting into one of innocent pleading. Elinor is taken aback at this. Has she truly acted so harsh lately that the slightest indication of tenderness rouses her daughter so?

"Mum?"

The lass's gaze is heartbreakingly hopeful.

"Just…"

And poor Elinor knows, right then and there, that she cannot say what she wants to. It is dangerous to encourage her already rebellious daughter, who would surely pounce on any hesitation from Elinor. She also fears that her display of understanding might be mistaken as a promise for the possibility of a different outcome.

"Remember to smile," she says instead, regaining her queenly composure with a stiff smile. It takes effort to resist laying a soft hand on Merida's arm, but Elinor has made her decision. She cannot back down now if she wants to maintain the tentative respect she has worked hard to cultivate.

Elinor turns and retreats from the chamber without another word, leaving behind a discomfited Merida.

* * *

 


	17. Sickbed

* * *

"Fergus."

When there is no reply for several moments, Queen Elinor looks up from her embroidery to glance at her husband. She knows him well enough to tell when something is not as it should be, and right now this is true of the King. He seems preoccupied, and his normally ruddy complexion is pale as the sky before a storm. Furthermore, he is being rather quiet, which is most unusual.

"Fergus," she states again. He looks over at her with distraction in his aquamarine eyes.

"Did ye say somethin', dear?" he asks.

"I was about to ask ye a question about the upcoming harvest," Elinor says. After a beat, concern etches a small line between her brows. "Are ye feelin' alright?" she asks.

"I'm fine," Fergus mutters.

"You don't look fine. Do ye feel feverish at all?" she presses.

"I'm not ill, woman," Fergus growls. Elinor ignores his protest and stares into his eyes.

"Yer eyes are lookin' a bit glassy." She sets down her sewing and places one slender hand on the King's forehead. "Hot as a coal." She then takes both her hands and places them on his face, feeling his jawline and neck with careful sureness. "And swollen here a wee bit. You, my dear, are sick."

If Fergus weren't feeling so rotten he might have grumbled some more just to get her off his back. Despite how annoying it is that Elinor is constantly right, the King is ready to surrender to a welcoming bed and a soothing cloth.

As is customary for the time of year, the weather shifts to something nasty as the Highlands approach winter. Fergus has been out for long hours every day in the chill, and Elinor shakes her head at his resistance to proper clothing.

"Ye really should wear the thicker furs," she scolds. "Of course ye've come down with something, it's cold as anythin' out there."

"They're hindersome," he mumbles halfheartedly, not at all in the mood to argue.

His face is so pitiful, so utterly pathetic, that she sighs.

"Alright, I am sorry ye're not well. Let's get you to the bedchamber, hm?"

Fergus allows his bottom lip to protrude while he nods.

"Aye, that's a mighty idea." His normally booming voice is little more than a croak, and Elinor bows her head in sympathy for the poor man. She calls for some of the help, and he is ushered upstairs with tremendous effort from their servants.

Once the ailing King is situated in his room, the nurse and her helpers arrive with bowls of cool water and clean rags. He has grown even paler in the past minutes, and Elinor fervently hopes his condition is a temporary circumstance.

"Oh, Fergus," she murmurs in distress.

"Don' worry about me, dear," Fergus says feebly, and tries to shake his head, but it is much too heavy.

Meanwhile, his Queen is having none of it.

"That's like tellin' water not to be wet. Now get some rest," she orders, and Fergus easily falls into a deep, heavy sleep filled with dreams of a gorgeous brown-eyed lass shooing hordes of nurses away.

(In his fever-induced state, he is not aware that these so-called dreams are in fact reality.)

Because when Elinor returns several minutes later having changed into a more practical dress, she anxiously tries to approach Fergus's sickbed only to be met with hearty insistency that she should take her leave at once.

"Your Majesty, please; the King will recover, but yer presence risks you catchin' his affliction." The nurse fixes Elinor with a determined expression, which simply riles her further.

"Are you implyin' that I am not capable of tending to the man? I will see to it myself that he is cured!"

"—Milady, I din't mean…" the woman pleads once more, but when the Queen interrupts, her dangerously low and measured tones leave no room for argument.

"I am the Queen, and I won't be told that I have no place by my husband's side, whether ill or well. Now,  _let us alone_."

The healer nods in surrender, and obediently leads her aids from the room.

Fergus rolls over in sleep, his head finding the soft comfort of the pillow. Elinor begins to fuss around him, pulling the sheets up over him and smoothing the covers. Some hours later he awakes, and the color has returned to his face, but the red is from fever.

"How are ye feelin'?" she asks quietly, though her question is more polite than curious, for he still looks like death warmed over.

"Great," he lies.

"Ye should drink some broth," Elinor says firmly. "It'll soothe ye."

"No. 'M not hungry," Fergus replies weakly, then leans his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes. When he opens them a moment later, Elinor is standing above him, her long braids tickling his arm.

"Ye're ill. Ye don't need to have a banquet, just a little soup," she insists. Fergus is, naturally, powerless against his wife's command. And so he concedes.

"Fine." The King sighs and Elinor disappears from view. She reappears moments later with a bowl of steaming liquid, a spoon and a cloth. She sits at the bedside and offers the bowl to Fergus, who reluctantly takes it from her.

Elinor watches as he takes a few sips of broth. She frowns when she sees his hands shaking, and gently lifts the bowl from his hands. He gives her a puzzled look, but relaxes as she helpfully brings the stew to his lips, slowly tipping the hot remedy into his mouth. The Queen smiles encouragingly as he struggles to swallow, his sore throat making the feat difficult.

When he finishes, Elinor sets the bowl on a nearby stool. She then places her small hands on both of his cheeks, her cool touch relieving his blazing skin. His eyes flutter shut as she gracefully applies subtle pressure with her fingertips, moving to massage his temples in hopes of calming his aching head. When he hums in contentment, she gives a small smile at her success, and he relaxes into slumber once more.

About a half-day later, his fever breaks, and he gulps more soup with renewed energy.

"I'm feelin' much better, love," he says enthusiastically. The King's voice is still scratchy, but his form looks quite improved to Elinor.

"I am pleased to hear it," she smiles. "You were rather out of sorts for a time."

"I was on my  _deathbed_ ," he whines theatrically. "What d'ye expect?"

Elinor rolls her eyes. "Ye were hardly dyin'," she dismisses. "It was just a small flu."

"Exactly. I would've gotten over it without ye wastin' yer time," Fergus says smugly, waving his spoon in her direction.

"Fergus," she starts with a huff, "There's nothin' wrong with lettin' someone take care of you once in a while. I know this may come as a shock to you, but ye're not infallible."

He eyes her with a childish look of defiance on his face, but she holds his gaze until he agrees.

"Fine, ye're right, ye're right. Thank you for yer help. Now leave me be, woman."

Elinor gives a little laugh despite herself, and the sound is hoarse to both their ears. Her smile fades in uneasiness at her unusual display of roughness.

Fergus is looking at her closely, and she draws herself back slightly.

"Excuse me," she apologizes. When he continues scrutinizing her, she scowls in discomfort.

"You look a bit woozy, Elinor. Are ye feelin' okay?"

And suddenly, the Queen feels her face heat with more than embarrassment. Without a doubt, she can feel the fever coming on, and there is only one man to blame.

"Now look what ye've done," she groans, glaring at him in furious accusation. Elinor brings one hand to her undeniably heated forehead, only hoping that her husband will not attempt to play the role of tender caretaker…

But Fergus grins ferociously at her, and rips the sheets away to pat the spot on the mattress next to him. "My turn," he sings with glee.

* * *

 


	18. Something Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how/if they ironed or curled hair back then. I'm claiming artistic license. Thanks for reading!

* * *

It is a beautiful day in Scotland, the sort of day that fills one with unadulterated delight at the magnificence of life and the splendor of nature. Autumn is impatiently waiting its turn to embrace the Highlands—but these past weeks have brought fairly mild weather, which is welcomed by many as they prepare for the brutal cold of the upcoming season.

Even the mountains are not so looming, though they stand bold and purple in the promising air.

Somewhere, an eagle screams its proud opinion of the rare sunny morning, as wind ruffles the reddening leaves of magnificent trees.

And inside the stony walls of Castle DunBroch, a Princess finishes dressing for her wedding day.

Thin rays of sunlight stream through the ornate stained-glass windows of the Castle DunBroch, basking the room in brightness. This illumination of furniture and walls, however, compares not to the glow of the room's most important subject.

Merida gazes at her ivory-sheathed form in the full-length looking glass. Her wedding dress is the very one that her mother had married in; Queen Elinor and her daughter have nearly identical figures, and the gown has been painstakingly preserved over decades for this very occasion. The radiant effect is accented by her long hair—having darkened into a vibrant auburn hue over the years—, which is arranged half-up, with tendrils streaming down around her shoulders in gentle curls. Small white wildflowers are dotted among the crown of her head, perfectly completing the tasteful look.

(This polished result was achieved after several painstaking hours under heated irons. Miraculously, Merida escaped with nary a burn.)

After a moment, she gives a delicate sigh, and plucks an invisible thread from one long sleeve.

"You look  _absolutely beautiful_."

The Queen's sighing words echo those of another day, a day that seems ages ago to Merida. Yes, Elinor had said those same exact words. But a more mature daughter responds to her now, a daughter who has grown into herself and her duty with the firmness and grace that is expected of a future ruler. Her childish resistance to change has disappeared along with the roundness in her face, but her spirit is continuously strong.

"Thank you, mother."

Elinor smiles fondly at her eldest kin, a slender hand splayed over her breast in affection. Her own gown is a deep amethyst and her hair is elegantly twisted into a single braid down her back. Today she is expected to dress with usual regality, but not so impressively as to overshadow the bride.

As she watches Merida unnecessarily arrange her posture in the mirror, for a moment Elinor is able to ruminate about her changing role in the lass's life.

Being a mother is not easy, not in the slightest. Elinor bears a responsibility that is worth more than her life. She has to care, to love, to guide with wisdom at every available time because she has had a daughter that  _needs_ her. Soon, that duty will fall to another…

Certainly, Elinor is still struggling to come to terms with this fact. These past years have brought the mother and daughter to a place where they are quite good friends, and the Queen cannot help her tendency to worry anticipatorily about the changes in the near future.

"Merida…"

The younger woman looks away from the mirror towards the hesitant voice. Her heart pounds a lively beat against her rib cage (though Merida is not sure whether the nerves are from the day itself or the possibility of what her mother is about to say to her).

Just like the last time, Elinor is looking at Merida with the same unfathomable expression. The Princess waits for her mum to once again hold herself back, to keep from saying whatever she had meant to say all those years ago.

"Mum?"

This time, Elinor does not hesitate.

"My daughter. I am so proud of you."

Her words hold no trace of the combative tone she had used the last time, when her utterance of  _remember to smile_ had filled Merida with the most crushing disappointment.

Now, she does not dare open her mouth in reply, out of fear that the blissful tears threatening to fall will flood and stain her special white dress.

The Queen is not yet finished. She feels foolish for thinking this, but this seems like her final chance to tell Merida something important.

"I'll always be here if ye need me. Ever. No matter what time it is or what the reason is."

"I know," Merida murmurs. And it is true; she has always known.

"I love you," Elinor concludes. A single tear travels down her cheek, and Merida reaches up to brush it away. Her mother lets out a small laugh, and shakes her head.

"Ye haven't even said the vows yet, and I'm already weepin' like a babe."

"You can't help it, Mum. Ye ought to shed a few tears on yer daughter's weddin' day, I imagine," Merida soothes, feeling rather nostalgic herself.

The Queen gives a dainty sniff, and brightens. "I have somethin' for ye," she says excitedly.

"Aye! A present?" Merida grins back.

Elinor draws a swatch of fabric from her purse. It is a square of tartan bearing the DunBroch pattern, and she carefully tucks it in Merida's sash so that it peeks out.

"Thought ye might need somethin' blue," the Queen says definitively, a twinkle in her eye.

The Princess turns back to the glass in order to admire the addition to her outfit. It is the greatest honor for her to be a part of the Clan, and she thinks of what to say that could possibly suffice in this moment.

Elinor comes up behind her daughter, placing an arm around the bride-to-be's waist.

Merida quietly meets her gaze in the mirror. She can see that the gray in the Queen's rich chestnut hair is more pronounced lately, that the lines around her intelligent brown eyes are more evident. But their family resemblance is undeniable—they still share the same-shaped eyes, the exact nose. Most importantly, they possess a mutual love for the other that cannot be torn by sword or magic (or marriage, for that matter).

"Thank you, Mum."

"For the token?" she asks, smiling slightly. "Consider it good luck."

"Aye, but also for not givin' up on me. For keepin' faith that I would one day find somethin' that I didn't even know existed."

Merida has found love on her own time, and Elinor has every confidence that her daughter will be just fine. She squeezes her once, and they remain intertwined for a minute until Merida pulls from the embrace, protesting that the smoothness of her dress risks being compromised. Elinor hides a grin, and steps back to go retrieve the final touch—this day will be the last that Merida wears her diadem in a formal setting. It will be replaced with Elinor's own crown before long.

Merida indulges herself for the smallest moment and twirls shyly before the large mirror, a hopeful smile on her face. The white wedding dress swishes with her body.

She is happy.

* * *

 

 


	19. What He Saw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the ending scene from Fergus's point of view, and it ties into the next chapter.

* * *

The demon bear is finished.

King Fergus can hardly believe it. Another animal—which is clearly a bear, but somehow also his wife, apparently—has snuffed the life out of Mor'du, and the Bear King himself can only struggle to his feet from where he was flung. He stares at the toppled pile of cracked stone, dumbfounded at the scene. Fergus (without a doubt) now believes his daughter's claims that the bear, who fought with too much awareness to simply be a beast, is actually his wife.

The good bear remains next to Merida, and there is a moment of quiet before the Princess startles.

"The second sunrise!" she gasps, and Fergus wracks his brain at the possible significance of her cry. Mor'du has been killed; what more is there to panic about?

Then the Elinor-bear turns towards Merida as well, and Fergus furrows his brow. How is the Queen supposed to change back, exactly?

He watches as Merida, who seems to know what she is doing, runs and grabs what he recognizes to be his wife's most recent project—the tapestry. It seems to have been mended for some reason, as there is a large scar of hastily sewn thread in the center. The King watches with curiosity as his daughter throws the hanging on top of the bear…but nothing happens, besides the rapid lightening of the sky above. When Merida realizes that her expectations have not been met, her face collapses.

"Oh, no! I don't understand, I…" As Merida falls to her knees and begins to cry, the pieces click together in Fergus's mind.

His wife is gone. Changed, somehow, into this bear. She will not be returning to them.

"Oh, Mum, I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I did this to you, to us." His daughter tearfully throws her arms around the bear, and Fergus does not intervene. Elinor is gone,  _she is gone_ …but the animal in her place is strangely calm, and for now he does not fear his daughter's safety.

Instead, he hangs back on the sideline, allowing Merida this moment with the phantom of her mother. Fergus will grieve the loss, later, when he is alone. This is not the place to lose it, not with everyone watching.

The other men, while not at all sure what is going on, catch on soon enough that the Princess is distressed, and they remove their helmets and bow their heads in respect. Merida continues, and as her words turn into desperate pleading, Fergus doesn't have the heart to interrupt and tell the lass that there probably is no hope.

"You've always been there for me. You've never given up on me. I just need ye back. I want you back, mummy.  _I love you_."

The Princess shrinks closer to the covered animal, and her small body shakes with sobs. Fergus feels his own face contort with pain, and looks down to see three small cubs clutch his leg. Oh, gods, the triplets…they, too, will never return to him as boys…

Just as Fergus is about to disregard his integrity and public decency at the thought of both wife and his sons being lost to him forever, it happens.

The dawn's new light washes over the clearing and its inhabitants, washing the area in rays of rosy pink and golden orange. A subtle breeze stirs the leaves of the surrounding oaks, as well as the disheveled hair of the sobbing Princess. Her orange locks quiver along with her crying, the mass of hair effectively blocking his view, and Fergus almost misses what happens next except that he is paying such close attention.

An unmistakably human hand appears around Merida's head, stroking her hair with the sort of assurance that only one person has ever been able to provide.

_Elinor!_

He watches as Merida senses her mother's distinguishing touch, and looks up to see that Elinor has turned human. The next words out of her gaping mouth echo Fergus's own astounded thoughts.

"Mum! Ye're back!"

With her face framed by curtains of loose dark hair, the Queen smiles at her daughter's exclamation. And as if she cannot quite believe the change of events herself, she lets out a tearful laugh. Elinor then grasps the girl's face in her hands, and kisses her all over with motherly expertise. Fergus decides to give them some time—they certainly are acting as if they are the only two people on earth, and he doesn't feel like intruding just yet.

When allowed a moment to gather her thoughts, Merida gazes at her mother excitedly.

"Ye've changed!" she blurts.

Fergus considers this for a moment; his wife does seem to have gained a few gray hairs, but he figures that she has been through a rather stressful ordeal.

But if Elinor takes offense at Merida's observation, she shows no reaction.

"Oh, darling," she says fondly. " _We both have_."

Fergus wonders briefly at what exactly his girls have been up to for the past few days, but then he is unable to contain himself for a second longer. As Elinor kisses Merida once more, he comes running up towards them, practically tripping over his feet.

"Elinor!" the King shouts in joy, and after he hugs them both for a blissful instant, it is his turn for some loving contact with the Queen.

With little regard for who is watching—something he will surely be reprimanded for later—Fergus grabs his wife and gives her a kiss that instantly makes Elinor weak in the knees.

"Oh, dear," she squeaks, and he pulls away to face her sheepish expression. The circle of curious lords and their men are drawing closer to the family, after all.

Merida, who has been rolling her eyes with typical adolescent disgust at their display, suddenly covers her mouth with one hand.

"Eh…Mum!" she says, her tone implicating. Elinor follows Merida's pointed look towards her makeshift cloak, which is doing a poor job of clothing the Queen.

Fergus, of course, is not paying attention to this little exchange, currently only able to gawk at his wife's face. Elinor,  _his Eli_ , she is beyond fair…

"Ooh!" The woman in question blushes furiously as she addresses her husband. "Um, dear?"

Fergus is still trying to collect his tumultuous thoughts, and he is not in the mood to decipher the coded language of women.

"Huh?"

His wife gives him an embarrassed grin, and she leans towards him to whisper away from their company. "I'm naked. Naked as a wee baby."

Fergus just stares at her, not sure what response she is looking for. While her unrestrained hair sweeps past her waist, she most certainly is still wearing nothing but a tapestry. Hmm, nothing but a tapestry…

"Well, don't just  _stare_! Do something!" she snaps, bringing him back to the matter at hand. There will be time for  _that_  later.

Fergus turns, and his possessiveness kicks in upon noticing that the lords have come upon them. He quickly holds his arms in front of Elinor, shielding her femininity.

"Back yer eyes, lads! Show some respect!" he growls, and the men hastily turn their backs lest Fergus cook them for the dogs' next supper.

Whatever his daughter has done, she has fixed it. Elinor has returned to them, and there is plenty to be discussed. Fergus can hardly wait until they are alone.

* * *

 


	20. Aftermath

* * *

After the tearful reunion between the DunBroch family, the royals and their company mount their horses to return to the castle. There is a cheerful energy buzzing throughout the party, but no one wears a wider grin than the King.

Once he has seen to it his men have been given instructions to prepare for the sendoff of the lords, he turns to his Queen. She is inspecting Merida with a trained eye; the girl looks like she could pass out any minute. Elinor entrusts the Princess to one of their fastest riders, along with strict orders to admit Merida to the infirmary immediately and a promise to personally check on her daughter in the morning, after she has received a proper night's sleep and medication for her scars. Elinor herself bears no sign of physical wounds, but seems weary from lack of sleep.

Fergus reclaims his own sturdy horse, and carefully lifts Elinor onto its back. He climbs up to settle behind her and they speed off through the chilly air back to their home. The forest is still and peaceful in the early morning, and the couple shares a stretch of silence as they are transported along the misty path, Elinor safely cradled in her husband's arms.

They arrive at the castle in due time. When he helps her off of the horse, Fergus realizes that Elinor is shivering in his arms.

"Och, dear, ye're quakin' like a leaf," he says with a frown. She just clutches the tapestry tighter around her shoulders, and looks at him blankly. Her thoughts seem to lie elsewhere, and he eyes her with concern.

"Let's get inside, then," he says, and wraps a supportive arm around her waist. After a few yards, it becomes clear that she is simply too overcome with—tiredness? Physical pain? He hasn't yet taken full inventory of her injuries, and is not positive—and so it is easier for him to carry her to their private quarters.

Before long, a harried-looking woman whom Fergus recognizes as one of the nurse's assistants halts them in the corridor.

"Yer Majesties, we've been lookin' for ye everywhere! Please follow me; ye could both use medical assistance immediately."

Fergus gives the healer an impatient look. "We're fine, we're fine. We'll just be goin' to our chambers, and I'll thank ye to leave us be."

"But—"

The King brushes past the servant without reply, and continues on his way. He is the king, dammit, and his wife needs him. He thought her dead for several dreadful hours, and god help anyone who tries to get in his way. He notices that Elinor is suspiciously motionless in his arms, though her eyes are open. He quickens the pace and they reach their destination shortly.

Fergus lays the Queen gently on the bed, which has been remade with fresh covers though there are still remains of broken furniture strewn around the room. He then rifles through a couple of drawers—an act of utmost disrespect on a normal day—until he comes across a thin nightgown. He plucks it gingerly between two fingers, and panics as he realizes he has no idea what the proper thing to do is.

He turns around, and sees that Elinor has left the bed. She stands a few feet from him still sheathed by the tapestry, and she approaches Fergus before taking the garment from his trembling hand.

"Thank ye, dear," she says faintly, and he nods with a swallow. Elinor slips the dress on while he gathers the tapestry from the floor, brushes away some of the dust and moves it to a nearby table. The deed only takes a minute.

He swivels around upon hearing a sigh emit from his love, who is eyeing the bed wistfully. Fergus gestures for her to return to the beckoning pillows, and feeling a bit wiped himself, sits down on the mattress. She gravitates towards him immediately, her head finding a place on his side. Silken strands of hair pool in his lap, and he shrugs a warm arm around her. The poor Queen is shaking again.

"Elinor, are ye all right, lass?" he asks uncertainly. When she looks up at his anxious face, her lovely amber eyes are filled with tears. His heart immediately beats wildly with worry.

"What is it? Tell me!" he says in choked tones. She does not answer, and he watches with dread as the tears spill over. Not knowing what else to do, he presses his cheek to the top of her head. His breath ruffles her hair, his hands big and warm on her back, but she makes a small noise of discontent.

Fergus wishes she would answer him. What could be the matter? Is it he, his presence? She has never had a problem with his enormous strength that he can recall. Yes, he is terribly imposing at times, and undeniably his large physique could even crush her. But he would  _never_  lose control. It would be physically impossible for him to harm her in any way.

He knows that she trusts him completely—so much that it humbles him at times. She has seen him use his might to protect his kingdom and family. He feels an immense guilt for fighting her when a bear, but surely she sees that his only thoughts were to save his daughter and avenge, well,  _her_?

Perhaps that is it—maybe she is upset because he fought despite the Princess's words.

"Oh, Elinor, I'm sorry for my reckless behavior in the clearin'," he says shamefully. "I never intended to hurt ye, I thought—I thought—"

"I know," she says almost imperceptibly, startling him. "I understand. There is nothin' for ye to apologize for," she says with a weak smile. Comforting him as always, though her own body is wracked with grief.

He shakes his head intently, still unsettled.

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. She is still Elinor, but she is also not quite Elinor. His wife has gone through something that he cannot fully fathom and it leaves him feeling lost.

His desire to help is so strong that his stomach twists.

And then, without warning, she buries her face in his chest. With his massive arm around her shoulders, and his gentle hand slowing rubbing her back, she cries, letting her anxiety spill out of her. Elinor is tiny as a doll in his arms as she shudders with anguish.

Time and space have no meaning to him; the progression of these phenomenons holds no relevance in this room. There is only Elinor, and her overwhelming pain. It wafts through the still air and enters his being—he can actually feel it. Randomly, he thinks of how it is a testament to their symbiotic relationship that he receives her woe so completely. He hopefully waits for her to enlighten him.

"There is somethin' ye must know," she tells him tearfully after catching her breath for a moment.

"Hmm?" she feels as much as hears him murmur. Somehow he has remained calm through this, though it contrasts wildly with his inner worry at her state. He is careful to keep his voice soft as to not further contribute to her condition.

The Queen miserably admits, "I am a dreadful person, Fergus."

A vulnerable sob escapes from her slender frame, and she closes her eyes, not wishing to face her husband. She then pulls away to wrap her arms so tightly around herself that he fears she will bruise.

" _What?_ "

Elinor feels him tug at one of her arms. She opens her eyes to see him staring down at her, his blue eyes narrowed and his head shaking slowly from side to side.

When she doesn't say anything, he prods incredulously, "What on earth makes ye think that?"

She drops her gaze, swallowing around the lump in her throat. "If I had waited a second longer to intervene—" she shakes her head, "—at the circle, I mean, Merida would've…wouldn't've…" The King has never seen his wife struggle so much to articulate her thoughts, and it throws him off immensely. She looks up at him again, tears running down her cheeks as she confesses, "I let her explore the cave earlier, ye see, and it's all my fault that her life was risked!"

She punctuates her words with a fresh wave of waterworks. His handsome face folds in agony, and he pulls her tight against him. Elinor peeks up in question at his vigorous reply.

Her dark eyes, through their tears, are wrought with…loneliness. That, and what looks like confusion that he is showing tenderness.

And with that he understands. She feels  _alone._  His love is trapped in an internal cloud of self-blame. He cannot stand it. Can't she see that he wants nothing more than to help, that he will do anything to make up for the fact that it actually is his fault (when he tried to  _kill_  her) she is distressed?

This is not within his realm of knowledge. He is the warrior; the leader of battles, the protector. But how can he protect Elinor from  _herself_? How can he shield her from the gloomy what-if scenarios that plague her thoughts, gnawing away at her well-being?

It is more important now, than ever, to say exactly the right thing. He must convince her that she is anything but alone in this and he loves her beyond words or reason. She is unquestionably deserving of much more than he can give.

"Oh, Elinor," he murmurs. Her small form quakes against him, and he desperately searches for the correct words. "Everyone is alive and well because of you, lass. Ye saved us all," he says fiercely, and she pauses.

Her face, lovely even while in utter agony, peers up at him timidly. It is unlike Fergus to put his pride aside in order to praise someone else for a heroic act—he occasionally gives credit where credit is due to his men, or other clan's leaders, but even then he is adept at sneaking in a personal boasting. (Elinor actually loves the confidence in him, despite his constant tendency to exaggerate.) It means a lot that he would say something like this.

"I suppose so," she says quietly, lowering her head in gratitude though she does not entirely agree with him. The King's indulgent statement still has her reeling.

"Ye're not listenin' to me, dear. Ye need to stop thinkin'  _what if_? And realize that ye've done somethin' amazing. Especially considerin', er, the state ye were in." He twists a lock of her hair through his fingers, not wanting to dredge up details of the inconceivable fact that his wife had briefly been turned into a bear. God help him, he doesn't even want to touch that one.

"I love you," he finishes firmly.

Elinor takes this in, feeling her tears as the rivulets track down her face to her chin. The pair is quiet except for the deep breaths associated with her crying. She is starting to calm down. When a stray tear falls from her face and lands on his cheek, she reaches a hand up and brushes it away gently, rather embarrassed at her emotional display.

Meanwhile, Fergus waits for her to respond, growing more troubled by every silent second as his apprehension spirals into blunt fear. Oh gods above, he hopes he is not too late to save her from permanent despair. His soul will truly shatter if she does not return to him.

With this thought, Fergus reaches and urgently takes her hand in his, drawing it to his mouth and placing a long kiss to her palm. At her gasp of surprise at his sudden movement, he tugs her closer with his other hand until their faces are barely an inch apart.

"I cannot lose ye, Elinor," he says on a ragged breath, reaching to grasp her shoulders firmly. "I…I wouldn' survive it."

She meets his gaze with a sensitive expression and his brows knit as the last of her tears flow down her cheeks. (Where is she keeping all of this water, anyways?) After a few moments he is sure that the hysterics have passed, and he kisses her forehead.

"I'm right here," he soothes. "I'm right here for ye."

Acceptance dawns on her beautiful face.

" _I'm not alone_ ," she whispers, and it is definitely a statement. Elinor has already forgiven him. She will hopefully forgive herself in time.

"Aye," he agrees, finally allowing a smile to spread. "Ye're not alone."

Elinor gives a gasping sob—this one of joyous relief—and closes the remaining distance between them, pressing her soft lips to his.

* * *

 


	21. First Kiss

* * *

The sun is shining. The sky is as blue as he can recall it being. The day, by definition, is perfect. So why can't Fergus settle his jittering insides?

On second thought, the lad knows  _exactly why_  his gut is jumping about. And it has nothing to do with the fortunate weather.

The Highland Games are more important to him this year than ever before, because he will be a participant rather than a bystander. He has no doubt of confidence that he will perform to the best of his abilities, ultimately winning the contest and the hand of the Lord McKinley's eldest daughter.

Yes, a fair maiden by name of Elinor…

His inner turmoil, he surmises, is brought on by not the possibility of losing, but what will happen after he is named champion.

Fergus watches the desired lass from his nearby position on the grassy field. She dances gracefully through the crowd of merry people, dipping at the waist when the music entails, long braid whipping around her lively body in streak of rich brown. Her sapphire-hued skirts flutter as she twirls, reminding him of a shimmering ocean.

These festivities that surround the actual competition are meant as celebration, yet Fergus couldn't relax if he tried. He wants to win, and not just for the sake of his pride.

His aqua eyes effortlessly follow the movements of the dancing girl. Since they were formally introduced the afternoon prior, he has been unable to dismiss her from his mind. Everything she does is fascinating—her dainty sipping of tea; her gentle smile…the way she manages to sit positively still during speeches from the Lords…

Fergus has yet to see her particularly happy or even angry, but he bets both emotions are adorable on her. He wants so badly to be the one able to discover these qualities about her. Oh, gods, what if he loses?  _But what if he wins?_ Will she take to him as he already has to her?

Fergus feels very much like he is about to be sick.

* * *

"I declare the winner of these Games, and the hand of the maiden before us; Fergus of DunBroch!"

Lord McKinley—Elinor's father—raises Fergus's hand high into the air. The cheering of the crowd impresses upon his brain in the form of a dull roar.  _He cannot believe it_. He has won!

"Congratulations, m'boy!" the Lord grins, and releases Fergus after a firm handshake. He manages to return the smile though his injuries from the final sword battle are beginning to sting. Then he catches a glimpse of a certain brunette, and he feels his stomach clench with a jolt of…anticipation. Or fear. And excitement. (Possibly all of the above.)

He drifts towards her across the stone floor in a dreamy haze, the surrounding madness fading away like a distant storm. Somehow, he brings his feet to a stop, though he cannot recall even leaving his previous spot.

"Well done," she says to him softly. Her brown eyes are glowing in sheer joy. His heart swells in answer.

"I thank ye," he says modestly, though inside he is singing. Fergus doesn't know what he'd do if one of the others had won—probably kill them, he supposes. But that doesn't matter now.

Elinor steps towards him, tiny slippers peeking their way from under her dress. Fergus glances at her form as quickly as chivalry will allow. He sees that she has changed into a violet-colored dress for supper.

…A dress that hugs her delicate curves in such a way that his neck feels awfully hot.

"Would ye care for a walk outside?" Fergus asks suddenly. She nods in response, realizing that he has been under plenty of public scrutiny lately. She, too, is aching for a break from her mother's watchful glare.

"Aye. I could use a bit of air," she says gratefully. He follows her from the Great Hall and as they make their way through the crowd, he focuses his eyes on her thick chestnut braid that has been artfully woven with matching purple ribbons. He is mesmerized by the way it swings against her back as she walks, the silky length of it surpassing her waist.

They soon reach the outdoors, where the golden sun is just setting on the horizon.

He hears her awed sigh. "Oh…it's beautiful."

Fergus turns to see her gazing at the sky with slender hands clasped at her breast. The warmth of the atmosphere is disappearing with the dying sun, and she shivers once.

(He shivers for a different reason.)

"Are ye cold?" he asks, remembering to be concerned. Elinor turns to respond, but without warning her foot catches on a loose stone in the yard.

She stumbles, and he catches her, his hands landing on the swell of her hips as she falls into his chest. Her mouth falls open in surprise as he rumbles an apology. Once he has steadied her, she nervously smiles in expectance that he will release his hold.

But he only smiles widely, and Elinor feels the blood rush to her cheeks in embarrassment at her clumsiness.

"All right, there?" he asks cheekily, and she realizes that he is continuing the physical contact on purpose. The pink tint of her cheeks darkens to red upon her own thoughts that she does not exactly oppose this turn of events. Meanwhile, he has leaned closer and now their faces are only inches apart as their breaths twirl together in the cool night air.

His blue eyes meet her brown ones questioningly. She says nothing, but her ladylike expression indicates that the next move is up to him.

_Enough of the jiggery-pokery_ , he thinks, and goes for it.

Grasping her tiny waist with his much larger hands, he meets her lips gently, but firmly. She starts, surprised, but catches on—and to his pleasant surprise—responds enthusiastically. Well, he can see now that Elinor is fiery, and some of his fears at the prospect of their compatibility begin to recede.

Fergus is used to thinking that there is no such thing as magic. But this… _this_  is magical. The feel of her lips is so soft, they are  _so_  inviting…he is floored by how right it feels, how absolutely perfect it is to be kissing Elinor, whose eyes have closed in what he hopes is pleasure.

The stars are shining, but when she opens them once more, the sparkle that radiates from the eyes of his betrothed is unmatched.  _She is not angry with him!_  Fergus rejoices internally.

He pulls away, pouring every ounce of strength into the action of removing his arms. It aches to let her go, but he must mind his manners.

The deep blue sky is gorgeous in twilight.

From the forest close at hand, an owl hoots a nighttime greeting.

And Elinor is his.

* * *

 


	22. Wedding Bells

* * *

"M'lady, if you'd allow me…"

Elinor nods and feels her hair swept from her back by the hands of her maids. She winces as her corset is pulled impossibly tighter.

A pleased huff sounds from behind. "I think that just about does it!"

Her answer is barely above a squeak. "Thank ye, Maudie."

* * *

"Och, is this  _really_  necessary?"

Fergus frowns—it's honestly more of a pout—and crosses his immense arms. He's already had a bath, do they have to trim his whiskers, too?

"M'lord, it's expected that—"

"—Aye, I  _know_ , just get it over with."

The tugging sensation that ensues does not help the man, who is already on edge.

"Oi!  _Watch where ye stick that thing_!"

He rubs his face while he gives the servant an impressive glare.

"Apologies, m'lord."

* * *

Elinor holds still for the better part of the hour, as her hair is intricately braided and mingled with sapphire pins (blue being the presiding color of Clan DunBroch).

"Oh!"

"Sorry, miss. These pins are rather sharp…"

She manages not to wince. "No matter."

The lass bows her head in apology, and tucks the last pin into the crown of Elinor's head just as Maudie returns.

"Lovely job," she says, admiring, before clapping her plump hands to her mouth.

"The gown! Fetch the gown, quickly, girls!"

* * *

"Lookin' dapper, Fergus!" Conor, his relative and close friend, chortles and gives him a hearty pound on the back.

"Save it, ye ol' numpty." Fergus squints at his appearance in the looking glass, somewhat surprised to see how ruddy his cheeks are without the grit.

He turns with a sudden thought. "Ye have the rings, aye?  _Tell me ye've got 'em!_ "

"Aah, I've got them!"

His cousin is giving him a terrified look, and Fergus realizes that he may be shaking him a tad too hard. He gingerly removes his hands from the poor man's shoulders, and pats them with a meek expression.

"Oh. Right, then. Sorry."

* * *

It takes four maids to help her into the dress and tackle the buttons, and later another two to carry the train, which goes on for meters. The ivory gown contrasts with her dark hair, and the result is stunning.

The maidservants gasp with delight at the sight of her.

"Oh, m'lady," one sighs.

"You're positively  _glowin'_."

It would take a fool to disagree.

* * *

Fergus takes deep breaths in front of the mirror, his reflection clouding with each exhale.

"What if she doesn't like me?" he panics, barely wary of the fact that he is muttering out loud.

In, out. In, out.

"'Course she doesn't like you," his cousin chortles in reply.

Fergus feels his heart stop.

"She loves ye," Conor adds.

Fergus would like nothing more than to hit him.

* * *

In, out. In, out. Elinor closes her eyes where she stands on the pedestal, attempting to calm herself despite the people still fussing around her.

"Miss, it's almost time."

She hopes he likes her dress. What if he doesn't like it? What if he doesn't like  _her_?

The girl smirks as she hands over a bouquet of baby's breath and seems to read Elinor's thoughts.

"M'lady, all of the Highlands see how he looks at ye. Ye've got nothin' to be worried about. Although…"

She glances at the entryway.

"If ye're a second late, he's surely goin' to knock down the door lookin' for ye."

* * *

Conor looks Fergus up and down, aware that the pacing man is a bundle of nerves.

"Fergus, calm down. Ye're goin' to wear a hole in the floor."

He growls in response.

"Just think of…her," his cousin suggests.

Fergus pauses, considering. True, he can't wait to see his bride. He is certain she'll look beautiful—she always does, to him. She laughs, real laughter, with him, and he thinks that they may be happy together if she continues to give him every chance.

"I'm ready," he grunts.

* * *

She can't wait to see how he cleans up. Elinor thinks that he's adorable anyways, but a little soap never hurts. She wonders what he is doing at this very moment. She wonders if he is at all nervous, as she is…

"Miss?"

She feels as the maids lift her train, and she opens her eyes. They're going to be fine, her and Fergus—she can feel it in her soul.

"I'm ready," she nods.

She doesn't wish to waste another moment.

* * *

 


	23. Family Outing

* * *

It was Merida's suggestion. A few days away from the castle, for the whole family to enjoy the outdoors in this early springtime. They would be camping for the first time together since the triplets were born. Her father had been on board immediately.

The Queen, on the other hand, had required slightly more work.

Merida tried her best not to wheedle. "Come on, it'll be a wee adventure in the woods, just our family! Ye're always sayin' that the boys are too contained in the castle. You yerself know that we could all use a break, away from the hustle and bustle of it all!"

Elinor had raised one elegant eyebrow.

"And from yer lessons," she'd replied, even as traces of consideration seeped into her voice. Perhaps a short trip would do them good.

Merida, the increasingly artful negotiator, easily detected Elinor's wavering resolve.

"Mum, I'll do extra ones, I  _promise_. Can we go?  _Please_?"

Elinor had sighed, and finally smiled faintly. "I'll speak to yer father, and we'll see."

Merida beamed at what would soon be a definite yes. (Elinor didn't need to know that the girl had already gotten to the King.)

"Oh, Mum, excellent! It'll be brilliant, I promise." She had then given the Queen a sincere peck on the cheek, surprising them both.

Elinor shook her head, having been bested by her daughter once again.

* * *

A few days of wrapping up royal obligations and several hours on horseback later, the family finds themselves at a lovely clearing in a sunnier part of the land, with the forest to once side and a river a little ways to the other. Somewhere near, a waterfall can be heard rushing methodically, though it is hidden from view.

"It's perfect," Merida decides, awe in her voice at the beauty of the meadow. She gracefully slides off Angus.

After unstrapping her load of supplies, the princess helps Hamish down from his spot on the horse. The other boys squirm with excitement as their parents dismount, until they too are lifted off. Fergus leads the three horses to the edge of the wood, and ties them up before tossing a few apples.

"How'd ye find this place, Dad?" Merida asks, already having kicked off her shoes. She relishes the new grass between her toes, eager to feel fresh earth after the long winter.

"One of my best men is from over the mountain," Fergus says, nodding his head toward the distant peaks, "And he rests here on his trips home. Told me about it month the last," he explains.

"Well, I hope the weather keeps on," Elinor cuts in, glancing up at the cloudless sky. "It certainly is nice to see the sun." She immediately begins sorting through the bundles, to Merida's protests.

"Mum, no, I'll do it! Ye ought to be  _relaxin'_. Go off and explore some!"

They've been cooped up all winter, and Merida wants only for the good cheer that followed the bear incident to make its face familiar once more. Now is the chance for them all to unload the stress of daily duty, here in the midst of nowhere. Though the bear incident is six months behind them, life is still hectic as usual.

"Explore?" Elinor repeats, amused. "While the boys run amok, I suppose?"

Merida gives her a champion eye roll.

"I'll watch them, really. Boys!" she shouts towards the forest, where the triplets are already halfway up a towering pine tree. They stop in their ascent, and look towards their older sister expectantly.

"I need yer help unpackin'! Startin' a fire and such!"

She turns back to her mother, eager to prove herself as responsible. "Mum, we'll be fine."

Elinor tucks a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "All right, then," she finally concedes. "I trust ye. We'll be back in under an hour," she adds, a small line of concern etching between her brows as she watches Hubert drop a pinecone on his brothers.

"And be careful," the Queen sighs.

Fergus returns to them, and announces that the horses are situated.

"How 'bout a walk, dear? The lass seems to have it under control," he suggests to Elinor, having overheard part of their conversation.

"I was just convincin' her, Dad. Go on, then," Merida urges, and all but physically pushes her parents towards the direction of the falls. She's nearly seven and ten years, for heaven's sake. She can handle babysitting for a while. Besides, she plans to sneak in some archery lessons with the boys while their parents are off doing—well, she doesn't want to think about  _that_.

The ruling pair heads towards the direction of rushing water. As soon as they are out of view from the clearing, Fergus sweeps his beloved from the path into his arms. He throws Elinor over his shoulder with very little effort, and she squeals before clutching the back of his tunic and fussing as he walks to the river in front of them.

"Fergus, no. No! Fergus, put me down...on  _dry_  land!"

She pounds his back with fisted hands, trying to catch her breath as she feels his deep laughter vibrating through his body. Elinor hopes that she has not given him any ideas.

After a minute, Fergus stops on the riverbank, observing as the water glistens in the late afternoon light. Gentle rapids swirl here and there, and a few squirrels chatter on the bank opposite.

"Water looks warm enough," he says conversationally, but Elinor catches a hint of mischief in his otherwise casual tone.

She freezes in her struggles to be let down.

"Ye wouldn'  _dare_ ," she says fiercely.

The Queen cannot see his face from her position, but she is confident it is painted with a smirk.

The answer is gleeful. "Wouldn' I?"

Her mouth pops open. " _You_ —!"

But Elinor doesn't get the chance to finish her exclamation as Fergus easily launches her over the edge, into the clear and  _most definitely freezing_  waters.

She emerges after a moment, sputtering. Her hair is plastered to her face in a brown curtain, and her lightweight dress is soaked through. Before she can scold him, the King dives right in next to her.

"I never," Elinor mutters, flipping her now sodden hair behind both shoulders. The added weight burdens her movements, but still she wades towards the edge without waiting for Fergus to surface. It takes a minute to reach the shallow waters and she almost makes it out before her waist is grasped from behind.

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry," Fergus gasps, he himself shocked from the chilly water. She twists from his grasp, and he winces at her stormy expression.

"I just wanted t'have a bit of fun, I didn' mean any harm," he says earnestly.

Elinor merely glares at him, and steps onto the dry rocks to wring the water out of her lengthy locks. Fergus follows her to a sunny patch of land with the demeanor of a saddened puppy.

"Eli?" he whines after another minute of silence, his whole form pitifully dripping beside her. She ignores him still and continues with her task.

Fergus can never bear to have her angry with him. "Eli, I said I'm sorry."

She squeezes some water from her skirts without a word, and finally turns towards her sodden husband. He looks absolutely distressed, right down to the drooping red mustache.

At this, Elinor finds herself powerless.

"Here, ye'll catch a cold if ye don't dry off," she allows. His face breaks into a beaming smile as she begins drawing the water out of his clothes, muttering all the while.

The King thanks her when she is nearly done.

"Never ye mind," is the cool reply, though Elinor bears the hint of a smile.

"I love ye," Fergus offers, once again cheerful at the improvement in his wife's mood.

"Oh, really," she says, stopping in her movements to give him a roll of her large brown eyes.

With vigorous nodding: "Beyond belief. And I really am sorry for throwin' ye in."

"Hmm," she says noncommittally. But her eyes are glittering, which Fergus takes to be a good sign.

"Ye're awfully wet," he comments, allowing his eyes to travel southward. He nods towards her dripping garments. "Should probably dry off in the sun or somethin'."

Elinor draws a sharp breath upon remembering the state of her dress, and wraps her arms round her torso. Her eyes widen as she realizes he'd allowed, without a word, for her to stand there in  _see-through_  clothing for…goodness knows how long!

"Ye'd like that, wouldn' ye!" she says, immediately flustered.

Ignoring her outburst, Fergus tugs at her arms and succeeds at freeing them. He lifts a strand of darkened hair away from her face, and it is silk between his fingers.

"We ought to do this more often," he grins, moving his hands to her narrow waist. She is indeed soaked through, and he can see the pale bodice beneath her dress. It has quite the effect on him.

Elinor, after all these years, still feels the familiar blush bloom across her cheeks.

"I—I might agree, though eventually we'd be missed," she responds, struggling to collect her thoughts. It is during moments like these that Fergus enjoys his queen most, when she is flirtatious and even shy.

He lowers his head towards Elinor's shoulder. "I'm the King, dear, remember? I'll just call off the search party," he murmurs into her neck, placing gentle kisses between his words.

"But, ah…they…oh," she gives up within seconds, and feels her arms slip around him on their own accord.

Soon they are adding their own music to the background sounds of nature, and the previously troublesome water is all but forgotten.

(Elinor's dress makes its way to a nearby rock to dry, though separated from its owner.)

* * *

When night falls, the family gathers around a cozy campfire. Merida had instructed the boys on proper fire etiquette, and they'd built the log formation together. Now, she keeps a watchful eye to make sure the triplets don't try any funny businesses while the family enjoys their supper.

"Ye warm enough, then?" Merida asks her parents as she adds more wood to the fire. They had recently arrived back at the clearing in wet clothes, her mother's hair uncharacteristically disheveled. The princess was afraid to ask for details.

What happens in the woods stays there, she likes to think.

Fergus makes a noise of contentment, and reaches for another skewer of cooked fish with a wolfish grin.

"Aye, well done, lass. It's just what yer mum and I need, after our, ah, swim," he explains, sending a cheeky wink in Elinor's direction.

Merida raises her eyebrows. "Went swimmin', did ye?" she asks doubtfully. They certainly weren't dressed for it.

Fergus says something under his breath that sounds to Merida like a boast.

"Yer  _father_ ," Elinor states through clenched teeth, "Thought it a good idea to have a dip in the river, which probably thawed  _yesterday_."

"It was a tad nippy," Fergus admits.

The response is incredulous. "A tad nippy? It was  _freezing_!"

Merida looks between the two "adults", and again at Elinor's mussed hair. She puts the pieces together at once.

"Dad threw ye in?" she grins. Oh, this was too perfect!

"Shoulda seen it," the King chuckles. "She was madder than a wet hen."

"I bet!" Merida laughs. The triplets bounce excitedly on their overturned log, and Elinor pokes Fergus with her empty skewer.

"Don' worry, I'll get ye back," she sings, before gesturing towards Merida for another fish.

The Queen, despite her aversion to icy waters, is now rather partial to the salmon that live there.

* * *

 


	24. Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the protocol for celebrating Christmas in 10th century Scotland? I've no idea. If I'm wayyyyy off the mark, please feel free to drop me a comment. I won't be offended, I promise. Otherwise, here's a little holiday fic for your enjoyment. Also, it may be slightly rated more than K+? Tee hee.

* * *

This year, it sneaks up on them.

The months have been slipping by faster than usual. It's just that there is always something going on, due to the queen's pregnancy. Yes, it came as a pleasant shock to both her and the king; finally, an heir to the Crown was to be expected by Spring, assuming all went well.

The couple almost dared not to raise their hopes.

But preparations still had to be made, and so Autumn is busier than ever as Elinor oversees the creation of a nursery in addition to the usual castle repairs. Fergus can often be found pacing the stony corridors, tossing all sense of decorum to the wind and pulling out tufts of his mustache in excitement or worry (usually depending on his wife's present mood).

Then, literally overnight, the castle becomes adorned with the usual seasonal decorations; multitudes of candles and garland and little sprigs of holly. The fires that roar in each room offer a cozy contrast to the bitter chill beyond the walls, where thick drifts of snow bury the castle grounds. The maidservants weave boughs of evergreen, and before long the rich scent of pine swirls throughout the large halls and winding stairways, to the point where it is nearly overbearing.

One morning, Elinor finds the new servant, Maudie, hanging a wreath near the main stairwell. She has only had a handful of interactions with the woman, but Maudie is exceptionally kind and Elinor already feels a strong sense of trust in her. She will make a fine nanny for the child, the queen thinks.

"Good morning, Maudie," Elinor greets, and the plump woman startles before giving a hasty curtsy.

"Oh, Yer Majesty! Forgive me, I-I was rather distracted," she squeaks in apology.

Elinor shakes her head for the maid not to worry. "The decorations look lovely," she declares. "Ye deserve every compliment."

Maudie nearly tumbles off her stool in delight. "I thank ye, milady! And might I inquire as to how ye are feelin' today?" she adds with a knowing smile.

The queen's right hand drifts to the front of her gown, allowing her to feel the swollen area under the fabric. It has been about seven months now, and Elinor is almost used to the fluttering sensation that responds to her touch.

Almost.

"Quite well," she muses, her thoughts already elsewhere, and Maudie stifles a giggle at the queen's unusual absentmindedness.

"Wonderful! I bid ye a fair mornin'," she nods, before bending down to retrieve the stray pine branches that fell earlier during her jump of surprise.

Elinor gives a parting response and drifts towards the stairs to visit the sewing room, her skirts gathered in one hand. This gown is her favorite, a thick flowing number of forest green. It had been the loosest of her few dresses what seems like only days ago and she has just noticed that already it is feeling too tight.

The queen does not cherish the time it takes to be measured—the whole thing frustrates her. It hadn't been so bothersome in the beginning, when her garments began to feel snug, but even her most let out corsets barely fit now. Having her clothing adjusted is just one more task to be added to her list of duties.

But Elinor has come to terms with her widening frame, because it means that her baby is growing, too. She could not ask for more.

* * *

For once, they will not be expecting visitors at Christmastime. The queen tires easily these days, and it would not do for Elinor to appear towards the rambunctious clans in her fatigued state, practiced diplomat or not.

(Secretly, Fergus rejoices at the prospect of a private holiday. The king harbors an even more intense feeling of protection towards his beloved than usual, and in her present condition he prefers to keep her to himself, away from the prying eyes of curious clansmen.)

On Christmas Eve, Maudie leaves them in their chambers with a kettle of hot tea and good wishes. After the maid withdraws, Elinor slowly levers her swollen body into a chair before the fireplace, and gives a tiny sigh once she is settled. The queen peers at the knitting basket sitting near the hearth, but decides to indulge in a bit of laziness for now. The socks that require mending can wait until the morrow, she thinks.

She watches for a moment as the firelight casts dancing shadows across the brightly colored balls of yarn, then gasps suddenly.

"Ooh!"

Fergus is instantly concerned. "W-what? What's the matter?"

He hastily sets down a bundle of firewood, ignoring as a stray log rolls away into a corner. Elinor recovers, and notices his worry.

"Was a particularly big one, that's all," she says, a smile breaking over her face. She moves one hand to her front, and the king's eyes follow the motion.

"A kick?" he asks. He remembers when Elinor had let him experience one, a few weeks ago. The movement that he'd so plainly felt had sent him into deep thought for the next few hours. It was when he'd first realized the magnitude of the situation…that he was going to be a  _father_.

"Yes, darling. Here," she invites, and guides his hand until it makes contact with taut silk. Shock mingles with amazement as he looks at his wife, then towards her stomach—the source of his awe.

"Wow, ah, that's a tough wee one," he mumbles with a chuckle.

Elinor's reply is proud. "Just like his father."

Oh,does the king light up when he hears that. He kisses his love's forehead before settling into a much wider chair beside her, allowing her fingers to clasp his palm. Elinor shifts in position until she is comfortable, and cannot help but give another tiny sigh of contentment. It feels wonderful to be off her feet.

Fergus observes her calmly, allowing for several minutes of silence. She looks tired, but beautiful. He feels as if he will never tire of simply being around his queen, who by now is grandly pregnant. With his kin! Fergus can hardly wait for the arrival of the baby but enjoys each stage in itself.

In true Elinor fashion, she imposes on his thought process before long, though he hardly minds.

"Have ye seen my stool, dear?" she questions, struggling to sit up straighter to look around the room. It is now routine for Elinor to put her feet up in the evenings, but he has other plans.

Fergus shakes his head, grinning. "I've got a better idea," he says.

With a low chuckle, he reaches for Elinor's left foot. Her mouth forms an "o" of surprise before she understands his intentions and smiles gratefully at him before shutting her eyes. Fergus begins to unlace the ties of her slipper with utmost care, from fear of snapping the thin strands of silk. When he is finished, he lets out a breath and moves to the other foot.

Before long, the king is gently rubbing her stockinged feet; swollen as they are, they still disappear within his enormous hands. As her husband's tender motions cause her to become overwhelmed with bliss, Elinor moans softly.

The king's movements cease, causing her eyelids to flutter open.

"Why did ye stop, sweetheart?" she murmurs in a half-sigh; she had been feeling rather comfortable. Fergus clears his throat in embarrassment.

"I thought ye'd…never mind," he mumbles.

The queen watches him in confusion before it dawns on her. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Ye were doin' such a fine job and it felt wonderful," she giggles, something she doesn't do often enough, in his opinion.

With a joyous smile, Fergus reaches for her foot and resumes his task. He ponders that Elinor truly is the fairest lass in the country, now enhanced because she has his child growing inside of her. He counts his stars daily, but especially in moments like these.

In the comfortable silence he allows his eyes to rove slowly over his wife's curvaceous body for the fifth (or fifteenth) time this evening. The shimmering emerald gown, maddeningly tight in all the right places…her hair, wound in the usual bands of gold and no less shining; her porcelain skin that takes on a golden glow in the face of the hearth.

And her eyes, watching him now with quiet amusement…

Yes, her eyes. Elinor has eyes more beautiful than any he has ever seen. They are large and infinitely brown, swimming with wisdom and strength, full of compassion and remarkable spirit. He finds that the affection she holds for him is as apparent as ever, and he only wishes he were deserving of it.

From her position, the queen can see that her husband is deep in thought. This has been a usual occurrence lately and she does not think much of it. But as his gaze meets her own for the third time this minute, she can feel her throat tighten as a wave of love washes over her. The feeling is so strong that tears prick her eyes and a shiver runs through her body.

Fergus immediately notices her shaking and assumes she is chilly.

"Would ye like some tea?" he asks, already on his feet. Elinor sighs because the moment is over, but he means well and tea does sound nice.

"I would, thank ye," she replies, her foot still tingling with the memory of his warm touch.

The king quickly reaches where the tea sits on a table, musing all the while that this is perhaps the best Christmas he's had thus far. A huge smile creases his face as an old ditty rises in his heart, and he can't help but want to sing it. He carefully pours tea into a small cup and returns to Elinor, humming all the while.

She notices his humming and frowns, tipping her head to the side.

"Ye're happy," she says, a question in her voice.

Fergus grins, "Aye, I'm happy. Why wouldn' I be?"

And then her face crumples as tears unexpectedly pool in her eyes, which had been so bright only moments previous. Elinor hunches into herself, helpless against the sudden onslaught.

The father-to-be stops dead, shocked by the sight. He continues to hold the teacup, having been about to offer it to her.

"E-Eli," he starts, "what's happenin' right now? Are ye alright?"

The poor queen nods her head 'yes' but keeps crying, until her crown begins to slip. Fergus crouches at her side, gently reaching to remove the heirloom before setting it and the cup down. He is unsure why she is crying and afraid he has caused it. Is she is angry with him for some reason? Oh, how he hopes he has not done something to upset her…

She turns, curling into him, causing him to breathe a sigh of relief. At least Elinor isn't crying because she is cross with him. However, it means that something else is the matter. Fergus holds her close for a few minutes, rubbing her back, soothing her the best way he knows how. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be working.

"Elinor, dear, speak to me. What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," she whimpers into his tunic.

Thrown by this very un-Elinor-like response, he pulls back from her a little. Taking her chin in his hand, he lifts her lovely face until he can look into her eyes.

He brushes a tear from one rosy cheek. "It's not like ye to act without reason," he says with an uncertain frown, concern in his voice. "Tell me, why are ye cryin', Eli?"

"I don' know!" she wails, and the sound nearly breaks his heart.

"Ye were just so happy," she sniffs, "a-and I just started cryin'. I don' know why…I'm glad ye're happy. I'm happy, too!" With this pronouncement, she bursts into a fresh set of tears and collapses on him again.

Fergus holds her, a laugh bubbling up inside him. He fights it back, knowing that she would be hurt if she thinks he is laughing at her, but he can't stop it from filling him. The king's body vibrates with the suppressed laughter until it bursts out of him. Elinor glares at him through her tears, but he continues chuckling for a while.

The queen eventually pulls away and attempts to cross her arms, something she once did often but struggles with this time due to her rounded frame. Her brow creases when she realizes her efforts to convey her annoyance are useless, for the man is still laughing at her.

He finally calms down upon noticing his wife's stony expression, and wipes away a tear of his own. "Oh, don't be sore, Eli. I'm sorry," he adds. She rolls her eyes for good measure, and then he is easily forgiven.

But he watches as her features slip into a troubled look, and Fergus scrambles to apologize once more.

"No, it's not that," she says, wincing until the discomfort passes. "Yer babby just enjoys pressin' against me at the most inconvenient times!"

" _My_  babby?" The king sounds amused as he pokes her side playfully.

Elinor swats his hand away and reaches for the abandoned teacup to take a sip. "Aye. Whenever the wee lamb does somethin' mischievous or naughty, he is  _yours_."

The twinkle in her eyes contests her words, and Fergus smiles impishly before moving down and touching his hands lightly to her distended belly. The queen almost forgets her irritation as her body flushes at the contact, and she sets the cup down with slightly trembling hands.

She cannot seem to get this reaction to him under control. Lately, most times when he nears her, she goes all flustered and warm. Now, his strong arm settles around her waist to lovingly squeeze her for one heart stopping moment…before he pulls away to ask something or other.

But it is she who tugs him close once more, and her hands find his hair as she tangles her fingers in the ginger locks. He responds to the kiss fervently, pressing his lips firmly against hers and causing them both to let out a small moan of relief. As prim and proper as his wife can be, she is occasionally an animal of lust, something Fergus enjoys immensely.

They pause for breath, and Fergus glances out the window behind his queen, where a thick snow is beginning to fall. When their eyes meet, there is pure adoration shining in hers, and he loves her so much in this moment he thinks his heart may explode.

He can hardly believe his luck.

"Merry Christmas, Eli," he rumbles, tightening his grasp on her just barely. She radiates loving affection, feeling perfectly comfortable now.

"Fergus…"

Before closing the space between them, she whispers her agreement.

"Merry Christmas."

* * *

 


	25. Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed a line from The Princess Diaries 2, which is one of the best movies ever.

* * *

"Have some of this pie, it's absolutely  _barry_ —Elinor, dear, are ye alright?"

Thirteen-year-old Merida glances up from her plate at her father, who is looking across the table with concern in his eyes at his wife. It is Sunday dinner, and the young princess watches quizzically as the Queen shoves away her untouched plate, then looks at her face, which has gone pale. Trout is one of her mother's favorites.

What could be wrong?

"I'm fine, sweetheart, just don't feel very well—," Elinor breaks off and abruptly takes her leave, exiting the room in a near sprint after barely lifting her skirts. With her fork still suspended in midair, mouth agape at her mother's unceremonious departure, Merida looks to Fergus for an answer. A guilty look crosses his face, and he busies himself with his plate without reply.

A very confused Merida sets her fork down. "Dad?" she prompts, and the monarch makes a nervous coughing/hacking sound. Usually Merida would find his antics comical, but today she impatiently waits for him to settle down.

"N-Nothin's the matter, Merida, really. Yer mum's just feelin' a bit under the weather, that's all."

But she can see that he is hiding something. The princess cheers herself with the notion that it will only be a matter of time before she finds out. After all, Merida knows all the ins and outs of the castle, and this mystery is no different. She'll just have to be patient.

* * *

"Eli, I hate to keep it from her. Ye know she's just a wee girl; she shouldn't be deceived by her own parents!"

"Soon, darling. I want to wait until she's ready. She's rather passionate— _you_  of all people ought to understand  _that_ —and the time must be right."

"I dunno. When d'ye plan to tell her? When ye're—ye're—?"

Merida strains to hear the conversation on the other side of her parents' door, and swears indelicately to herself when she misses the last bit of sentence. The debate is heated on this late evening, but her father has trouble getting his words straight when he's worked up.

Merida shouldn't be here, listening in, but when has that ever stopped her?

"…I promise, Fergus, you just have to trust me. Can ye do that?" Elinor pleads, and Merida can practically see her father give in.

A loaded sigh. "Of course, dear. Do what ye feel is best."

The candlelight under the door flickers as the couple moves toward each other, and Merida makes a face at the kissing sounds that ensue.

"Thank you. I appreciate it," Merida hears the Queen add in a dreamy tone. She then steals away to her own room before she can be discovered.

She flops backward onto her bed, contemplating. Her mother is sick. That must be it. Why else would she be so absentminded and pale recently, behaving out of sorts and constantly forgetting things?

Her thoughts escalate in a tumultuous fashion as she considers the impending circumstances. Merida knows that she and Elinor have their differences, but she would be lost without her…

Before she knows it, she is crying quietly and the tears leak over her cheeks onto the hand-woven bedspread. The covers depict a scene of her with her parents, and she gently brings one finger to the little Elinor figure, shakily tracing her outline. She couldn't  _die_! It wouldn't be fair!

* * *

A few weeks later, Merida skips into the bedroom to ask something of Elinor, who had mysteriously disappeared several hours prior. Upon entering the chamber, she is startled to see the monarch in deep sleep, lying atop the covers with her hair splayed in every direction. Merida tiptoes to the nearby armchair to study this obvious aberration and is just growing bored when Elinor stirs. The queen's eyelids flutter open and Merida sits up with a slight gasp, feeling like her mother has been slumbering for hours.

"Mum?" she asks softly.

"Merida…? What's the matter?" Elinor frowns, unsure as to why her daughter is peering at her so intently.

Merida doesn't beat around the bush. "Mum, are ye ill? Really ill, I mean?" Her daughter's voice wavers on that last word.

"Oh, darling, not at all. I promise ye, it's a just a bit of fatigue," the queen assures her.

Merida does not look comforted in the least. She crosses her skinny arms, striking a look of childlike concern. "Mum, it's not like ye," she presses.

Elinor's voice takes a sharp edge. "Merida, honestly, I'm  _fine_. Leave it alone."

The girl winces at this, and Elinor quickly softens. "I'm right as rain, dear. Why don't ye go on and take Angus for a ride, eh?"

Merida nods and reluctantly leaves the room feeling more confused than ever. Sleeping through princess lessons? Encouraging her to ride in the open land? A few months ago, it had been all  _elbows off the table, Merida,_  and  _stop slouching when we have company_.

Perhaps her mother has gone off her rocker once and for all.

* * *

"I dunno what's gotten into her, Angus. One moment she's botherin' me like mad, and the next she's practically givin' up on her duties and our lessons, not that I care about _that_. The only reason I'm out here now—instead of in the library—is because she sent me away with that distracted look on her face."

Merida brushes Angus unnecessarily, as he had been given a proper grooming earlier in the day. At this point it is more of a relaxation method for the princess, who can't stop thinking about how odd the whole situation is.

"D'ye think she's lost it, boy?"

Angus whinnies in what could be agreement, but most likely he is simply itching to leave the stable for a ride. Merida waves the dandy brush in exasperation.

"Oh, ye're a big help. Too bad ye can't talk," she grumbles.

Merida often finds herself desiring a friend her age, but the village is a ways off and she doesn't get the chance to socialize much.

She's  _lonely_ , she realizes, and plops dejectedly in the hay as her mind wraps itself around the word.

"Angus, if I had a wish, I'd…oh, I'm being silly," she laughs, but the horse cocks its head and looks at her with one big eye as if he can read her very thoughts.

The princess sighs and pulls herself off the floor, dusting her muddied skirts to the best of her ability.

"Wonderful," she mutters, examining the fabric. Just another thing that her mother will scold her about.

* * *

"Mum, come on. Aren't we goin'?" Merida huffs impatiently one day, urging her mother down the hallway to the waiting guards who will escort them and their horses. The DunBrochs are going on a rare trip to the neighboring village to visit some cousins, and Elinor is not moving quite as fast as the princess would prefer.

"Aye, Merida, calm yerself," the Queen says with an eyeroll, sidling down the corridor at a gradual pace.

Merida can't help but notice that her mother seems to have put on a few pounds lately. And dare she mention that Elinor appears to have lost some of her queenly grace?

…No, she dare not, she thinks with a slight shudder. She's in hot water often enough these days; every little thing ticks off her mum and it's best to keep her observations to herself.

"Mm-hm," she mumbles, eyeing Elinor's movements with a smirk. It's clear that her normally-perfect mother is at this time, well, less than. How strangely satisfying!

She shakes the silly thought. So what if the Queen forgets things more than she used to? As long as it works in Merida's favor, she is quite content.

"We won't be late, Merida," her mother continues in irritatingly calm tones. "A royal is never late. Everyone else is simply early."

The princess turns on her heel with a roll of her large blue eyes, and Elinor frowns at her backside. She is much like her father, the Queen thinks, and this is not necessarily a good thing.

* * *

About a fortnight later, Elinor and Merida are in the library for lessons once again, and the princess is distracted though not for the usual reasons.

"…the Adriatic Sea, right here, is divided into three basins, the northern being the shallowest—Merida, are ye even listenin' to me?" the Queen glares, rapping the map with her pointer.

"Aye, of course, Mum. It's just…"

She has been staring off as is her habit, but at a different point of interest. Her mother is wearing a different gown today, and it is definitely tighter than it used to be. Merida has been trying not to stare at her mum's, er, assets, but it's difficult not to be curious.

Elinor sighs. "What, Merida?" she prompts, for once sounding very interested.

The girl lowers her eyes, searching for a way to phrase her thoughts delicately. "Mum, I can't help but notice…ye're different," she says quietly, lacing her fingers together.

Setting down her stick, Elinor sits on the chair next to her daughter, taking her small hands in her own.

"Different in a bad way?" the Queen asks warmly, and Merida feels a tiny spark in her heart. It's been a while since her mother has inquired after her thoughts, and it is nice to be remembered.

"I…I just know somethin' is wrong, and ye won't tell me what it is! I hate it," she admits, nearly in tears. Her head bobs to her chest, orange curls rushing to cover her face.

"Oh, Merida," Elinor soothes, and moves to pull her closer. "I do believe that now is the right time," she says to herself. She knows she has run out of time, and has no intentions of frightening the poor girl further. Merida looks up, eyes glassy.

"What? What is it?" she asks, attempting to sound interested but instead succeeding in making a pitiful sniff.

"Well," comes the careful reply, "I am with child."

Merida's brows knit together, and she moves to wipe the dampness from her flushed cheeks. After another sniff, she stammers, "Ye—ye—what?"

Cautiously drawing Merida's hand to her midsection, Elinor lets her feel that beneath the silk is taught skin protecting her future brother or sister.

"Oh," she gasps, and can hardly believe she missed that coming a mile away, somehow.

Elinor's face breaks into a wide smile, and Merida can see the sparkle in her brown eyes.  _She looks nice,_  she thinks.  _Pretty. And happy._

And she recognizes her own happiness in that moment. "I'm goin' to be a  _sister_?" the Princess squeals, delighted at this change in luck. Her thoughts turn to the possibilities of a real live sibling to play with, to share secrets with; to boss around!

"That ye are," the Queen beams, and envelopes Merida in a loving hug.

"I can't wait!" she giggles, alight with joy at the fact that not only will she soon have a friend, but that the lesson is most probably abandoned for the day. Then a new idea occurs to her.

"Mum, d'ye think…d'ye think there could be two? A lad  _and_  a lass for me to play with?"

Elinor chuckles at the notion. "Heavens, Merida, I think one babby is quite enough to handle, let alone two!"

Merida bounces out of the chair. "Ye never know," she shrugs, and skips out of the room to find her father. Now that she's in on the secret, after all, she can put in her opinion on names.

It's good to be the eldest.

* * *

 


	26. Archery II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an expansion on a scene that was storyboarded for Brave but was eventually cut.

* * *

On one brisk autumn afternoon, the Queen and her daughter linger in the library after the mandatory tea until Merida can take it no longer. She finishes an impatient finger-tapping session with a sigh, bored due to her mother having lost herself in a book quite a while ago. The Princess slides out of her chair and stands, grabbing one more treat for the road.

"May I be excused, Mum?" Merida mumbles through a mouthful of bun, already halfway to the door.

Elinor lowers her book to the table and reaches smoothly for her teacup.

"And where are you off to?" she questions before taking a careful sip. Naturally, the tea has gone cold, and she peers into the cup with a grimace.

Merida halts before the door and turns with a sigh, swallowing the rest of her mouthful.

"I was goin' to try out these new arrows," she says impatiently, gesturing towards the quiver strapped to her back. "Ye know, slice up a few targets."

Elinor really must have a word with the smith about his exceedingly loose policy of supplying the Princess with unlimited ammunition.

"I see," comes the mild reply. To Merida's surprise, her mother sets down her cup and rises from the table.

"May I join ye?" are the next words from Elinor's mouth, causing Merida's to promptly fall open.

Her mind goes blank of the next excuse she was planning to make in order to get going.

"Um…why?"

Elinor is unruffled. "I thought we might go for a walk together," she replies, adding with a frown, "Close your mouth, dear."

Merida shrugs. "Okay, I guess that's alright."

"Wonderful. There's just somethin' I need to fetch before we leave," the Queen says with a cryptic smile. "I'll meet ye downstairs."

Somewhat excited and definitely intrigued at this new development, Merida races down the stairs and through the hall to the front door, feet barely touching the stones beneath.

What on earth could her mother be up to?

Five minutes later, a smiling Elinor joins her at the entryway, grasping what can only be—

"A  _bow_?" Merida asks, incredulous. "That's what ye…what  _for_?"

Elinor gently blows a bit of dust from the wooden apparatus. "I imagine it's used to shoot arrows," she replies wryly.

Merida rolls her eyes. "I  _know_  what it's for. I just meant what are  _you_  goin' to do with it?"

"Really, Merida, I should think that's obvious."

The image of the Queen holding a bow is at once familiar and strange: familiar, of course, because Merida encounters such weapons all the time, but it's bizarre to see one in the hands of the uptight monarch. Okay,  _uptight_  is no longer a fair way to describe her mother these days, but… _proper_ , yes, that's still right. The scene is odd, to say the least.

Out loud, Merida says nothing, giving off a blank expression.

Elinor sighs. "I'm goin' to use it," she says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"On…what?" Merida asks, still confused.  _Or whom?_

Elinor shifts the bow to her right hand and strolls towards the stable door. "I'll show ye," she calls, and Merida jumps to her feet. "Come, now."

They exit the castle and head to the woods, Merida glancing sideways at her mother all the time. The woman was constantly amazing her, though she supposes she should be used to it by now.

As mother and daughter make their way down the worn path, deeper into the trees, Merida can't help but growing giddy with enthusiasm. The prospect of sharing her favorite hobby with her mother is a wonderful thought. Sure, they now go riding together more than ever, but this is different. The art of the bow is a precious thing to behold, and Merida finds herself wishing that today is the day that maybe, just maybe, her mother will see the beauty of it, too.

* * *

After a time, they arrive at a clearing, and Merida pauses. There are bits of old arrows lodged in random tree trunks and branches. She has spent many a day here perfecting her skill—her craft, if you would—but today marks the first time that she is not alone.

Elinor gestures at the area, rudimentary targets and all.

"I see ye've claimed this poor patch as your own. No wonder there's barely a peep from the birds," she quips, referring to the apparent accuracy of Merida's arrows.

The Princess can't help but preen a little, twirling her bow with one hand.

"Aye, they tend to flee when I'm around. Can ye blame them, Mum?" Merida punctuates this by releasing an arrow into the trees, and a resounding  _thwack_  echoes around the clearing as the arrow meets some random branch.

She smiles uncomfortably at Elinor. Normally, Merida wouldn't show off in front of the forever-disapproving Queen, but their relationship has been on the mend lately, so why not have a little fun? Furthermore, her mother  _did_  invite herself along.

Elinor surveys the grassy patch. "Hmm. Why don't we make a proper target, and I can try this old thing out?"

Merida resists an eyeroll. Trust Elinor to be unsatisfied with the options, in  _nature_ no less _._

"I suppose we could do that. There's a pile there," she points, "With the boards from the shootin' match at the Games," the Princess says halfheartedly. She tries not to remind herself of that day, and so the targets lie unused in a heap though they were dragged there months ago.

Elinor doesn't comment, nodding instead. "That should do nicely."

It takes the two of them to heave just one of the bulky boards into the open space, and Merida has more than one smudge on her face when they finish. Elinor dusts her hands off, and turns toward the pair of bows, which lean side-by-side against a boulder.

"After you, sweetheart," she says warmly. Merida can't help but shake her head lightly, marveling at the Queen's change of heart.  _A princess should not have weapons, in my opinion_  flits across her memory, but if Elinor wants to let go of her grudge, far be it from Merida to complain.

Merida shrugs and easily draws an arrow from the quiver, squinting only momentarily at the target. Two seconds later, the bull's-eye is occupied by her arrow.

If the Queen is impressed, she doesn't show it. Merida steps to the right with an expectant look on her face. "Go on, then," she offers.

Elinor nods before procuring her own arrow. As Merida watches, the monarch fits the shaft into the notch on the string and raises her arm to draw the bowstring back towards her body. As the tension grows in the device, Merida can see the muscles working in her forearms. There is a slight stiffness there, but nothing too inhibitive.

Merida's heart drums in anticipation as the bow strains taut and the tip of the arrow stares down its target.

Her mother draws a nearly inaudible breath, and releases.

In a blink, Merida's arrow is split, just as she did to that idiot Dingwall's bull's-eye so many months ago.

Of course Elinor is great at archery.  _Of course_. It's so utterly unfair—why can't her mother just let her have this one? Why does she have to be perfect at everything she attempts?

Then again, maybe this could be something they do together. Merida quits gawking and finds it easy to smile.

"Mum, ye're brilliant!"

"Oh, don't be silly," the Queen beams, admiring the target.

"Please. You're an  _archer_!" the Princess declares, throwing her arms up in a mix of awe and delight.

Elinor shakes her head, suddenly modest. "Not these days, dear."

"How—how could you ever give it up?" Merida asks, a tad wistfully.

Elinor's grin fades a fraction as she turns to regard her daughter, carefully resting the bow against one leg.

"It…wasn't much of a choice," she says, somewhat halfheartedly. Elinor pauses for a fraction of a second before shaking her head, as if to ward off such thoughts. "I had expectations to fulfill. Archery is not the most elegant of pastimes, as ye know," she finishes with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Still, it seems wrong, Mum. You're amazin' at it!"

"Oh, well, I haven't the time, for another thing," Elinor shrugs. "And I can't exactly go prancin' about the kingdom, firing arrows into every little thing."

Merida giggles at the thought.

"I'd quite forgotten about this bow, actually, until yer little stint at the Games," the Queen continues, raising one eyebrow.

Merida looks sheepish. "That's a day we'd all rather forget, I imagine."

The Queen nods her assent. "Nonetheless, ye did have me thinkin' about something I rarely indulge in."

"Mum, I'm so proud of ye," the Princess squeals, throwing her arms around her mother. "Dad taught me to shoot, but he always said I had natural talent."

Elinor chuckles, leaning into the redhead's embrace. "Ye didn't get  _everything_  from yer father."

* * *

 


End file.
